


Contractual Obligations

by DeerShifter, UniverseCreator



Series: Contractual Obligations [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night (Visual Novel), Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: (Sort of - dragon-human mentality mixing anyway), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Authority Figures, Bargaining, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blacksmithing, Canon-Typical Violence, Chivalry, Class Differences, Class Issues, Communication Failure, Companionable Snark, Consent Issues, Contracts, Coping, Courtly Love, Courtship, Crossdressing Saber, Culture Shock, Deal with a Devil, Depression, Developing Relationship, Dragon & Human Interactions, F/F, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Faustian Bargain, Fertility Issues, Financial Issues, Friendship, Fusion of Original Myth and FSN, Futanari, Gen, Gender Roles, Guilt, Half-Sibling Incest, Headcanon, Headcanon on Throne Mechanics explained, Historical References, Honor, Idealism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jousting, Kaleidoscope, Magical Artifacts, Magical Pregnancy, Manipulation, Marriage Proposal, Marriage of Convenience, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Nobility, Non-Human Ancestry, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Racism, Political Alliances, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Pragmatic Idealism, Present Tense, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Rape Culture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Royalty, Sarcasm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Assault, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Spells & Enchantments, Spoilers for Archer's identity, Spoilers for UBW, Survivor Guilt, Time Travel, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, possibly?, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 122,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerShifter/pseuds/DeerShifter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseCreator/pseuds/UniverseCreator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate is a fickle thing. Time and time again, the Once and Future King has woken from her slumber to aid her country in its time of need. The World could not refuse her plea, her prophecy, but it has entered a never-ending loop as a result. Fed up, Alaya sends one of her dogs to fetch the key to a new Guardian.</p><p>Slow build, gritty topics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: On the nature of the Throne of Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Response to Fate of the Unknown, on ff.net, challenge chapter 117: Fate: Past Awry (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10967401/117/Fate-of-the-Unknown)
> 
> Credits to mirrormoon's translation of the original Visual Novel. Some sections taken verbatim from the Day 1 of the Prologue and from the Last Episode.
> 
> Also thanks to SwordofallCreation and Universe Creator for initially posting the challnge and offering their help with working out the trickier bits of the beginning and ending of this. Now I just need to sort out the middle.
> 
> I promise not to abandon any fic I am currently working on. Should I take a break, It will be labeled on Hiatus, in summary and on my profile.
> 
> Warnings for future canon-typical violence, nightmares, and no good decisions in ethical dilemmas. Also for future rape, graphic.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any portion of the Fate Franchise, nor do I receive any financial gain from it. This is for my enjoyment and my readers'.
> 
> Now, On to the story!
> 
> P.S. Due to multiple complaints about my opening info dump in the prologue on Throne Mechanics, I have removed the wholesale section, and will repost a bit of my head-canon at the beginning of each chapter, since I have no desire to turn anyone off.
> 
> P.P.S. I have no idea why everyone thinks I am male. I am a girl, people.
> 
> EDIT: As of 8/22/2015, Universe Creator is officially a co-author for this work.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission is offered. And it's an offer he can't refuse.

**_There are many speculations about the Root of Akasha and its various sections. The accuracy of such speculations is, of course, limited; how can a human mind begin to comprehend an infinite repository of knowledge, only a miniscule part of which is human in nature?_ **

**_The Throne of Heroes is, of course, one of the larger parts of the section of human knowledge, as well as one of the better known and understood subsections. (Or so those who know of Akasha claim. Those who have actual contact with the Root to say for sure are few and far between, and not inclined to speak.)_ **

**_What is known is that Heroes are removed from the Cycle of Reincarnation, glorified by their legends, and take their place on the Throne, enshrined by human memory._ **

**_The truth is nothing so idealized. Or lengthy, even. To be a resident of the Throne, one must somehow qualify as a Hero, or an Anti-Hero._ **

**_But surely, you may argue, shouldn't an emergency medic qualify as a hero? Shouldn't a firefighter who lost his life getting people out qualify? Why do they not end up on the Throne?_ **

**_The answer is rather simple._ **

**_To qualify as a Resident of the Throne, a prospective Hero (or Anti-Hero) must be synonymous with another word. He or she must be a Meddler._ **

**_-_ From the thesis notes of an unidentified Clock Tower student**

…

In all the aspects of the Kaleidoscope, there have been but two instances of Alaya failing to keep her promised Counter Guardian once a contract has been established.

The first is due to said prospective Counter Guardian accidentally ascending to the Throne as a Meddler in his own right, entwined so closely with his lover Janet/Margaret that they share a room even in the afterlife. This is Tam Lin, who told his lover how to free him before the contract might be fulfilled, their legend immortalized in the Border Ballad that bears his name.

The second instance is due to the Contract requiring the prospective candidate to gain the reward herself, with Alaya merely opening the chance for her to do so. This candidate was known in life as the male King Arthur, King of Knights, despite being born a woman.

Arthuria or Altria or whatever name she was born and baptised under, this Heroic Meddler answered to 'Arthur' for her entire adolescent and adult life. She lived as a man, married as a man, ruled as a man, gathered a host of Heroes behind her as a man, united and protected her country as a man.

And in the end, it all fell apart.

Her 'wife' and their mutual best friend were discovered comforting each other, the stress of the masquerade too much for them. Though the king had blessed the affair by silence, now that it was public 'he' was forced to condemn his queen to death for treason. The Round Table cracked over the decision, Lancelot choosing to rescue the Queen from their mutual folly and accept exile for it, leaving his King alone. Many knights died as a result of his decision, including Gawain, who had often served as his King's double in public and believed in Arthur as the perfect King.

The only one remaining who knew the secret she lived with daily was her foster brother Sir Kay. Merlin was gone. Ector was dead. Mordred had left, and Morgan had discovered the truth on her own and would use it against the Crown if she could. And as much as Kay tried, his struggles to hold the kingdom together did not leave much time to spend with his foster sibling that was not in the public eye.

That was the first betrayal, to lose the remains of the support network that saw her as human.

News came of a border skirmish, and Arthur led out her knights to deal with the foe. Exhausted, she retired to a nearby abbey after the victory, collapsing with her sword in one hand, and her scabbard in the other. When she awakened, her scabbard was gone, and she was told that her sister Morgan had come and visited while she slept, and gone away with the scabbard under her cloak. Though the King pursued her, Morgan threw the scabbard away into the river, and it was carried swiftly downstream and could not be retrieved.

That was the second betrayal, to lose the protection that kept her as she was on the day she drew the sword from the stone, healed and unable to age. The loss of the Fae-given protection restricted her options in battle and left her doubting her own decisions.

And when she returned to the capital, she found the land in civil uproar. Mordred had reappeared, claimed the birthright of heir to the throne, and further destabilized the already shaken country, backed by Morgan and the knights loyal to her.

That was the third betrayal, to entrust her country to another and find her judgment to be lacking.

The king had no choice but to take the knights still weary from the border skirmish and ride to meet 'his' 'son' in battle.

The night before the battle, Arthur dreamed of Gawain. Truest in service in life, and even so after death, Gawain warned Arthur, "Do not fight tomorrow, or else your fate is death, along with most of the men on both sides, even if you win. Delay with an offer of treaty for a month, and Lancelot will come to your aid."

Arthur took the advice, offering Mordred the rule of Kent and Cornwall for now, and the rest of England after Arthur's death. Mordred agreed to meet on Camlann to sign the treaty. For a moment, it seemed all might be well, with both sides bearing arms, and both warned to draw only if the other side did so first.

Alas for a treacherous adder, biting through the mail at a nameless knight's heel. Alas for the knight's reflex, drawing his sword and cutting the serpent in two. Alas for the flash of steel that spurred both sides into a battle that neither desired.

At the end of the day, Mordred lay dead, pierced by Arthur's blessed spear, along with all his knights. Sir Lucan, the last to die, fell to his gut wound. Only Sir Bedivere stood without a mortal wound.

How, wondered 'Arthur,' could I have failed so badly?

The answer was obvious: she had usurped another's role. The prophecy had spoken of a son and not a daughter, after all.

If she had found the Holy Grail, Lancelot would surely not have lost his son Galahad.

If she had found the Grail, surely her country could have been saved.

But she had not, and she was not worthy of it.

So she made an offer to the world.

"I will swear my sword to you after I die. But , in exchange, you must allow me to obtain and use the Holy Grail before I die. So that I may fulfill my final duty as the King of Britain, and find a worthier replacement who can do a better job than my attempt, by returning to the scene of Caliburn in the Stone. I will only serve you once your half of the contract has been fulfilled."

Who could resist such a Bargain? A meddler, who was already a Meddler under her own power, yet was willing to submit to the World for the creation of another Meddler to take her place?

Not Alaya.

_*So be it. I will stop time for you, and you will be summoned onto many battlefields for the Grail. But should you lose, you may not repeat the same battle. I will return you to this place after each battle. Should you lose, and wish to continue, you may keep the memories of the loss. Should you lose, and not wish to continue, you may end the contract, unfulfilled on both our ends, at any time. Either way, you will not repeat a battlefield. And in the end, when you have won, and used the Grail, you will serve me with your sword. Regardless of what has happened, you will not forget the bargain, or the circumstances that led you to make it. You will serve me eventually.*_

"I understand. I accept."

…

Alaya should have known it was too good to be true.

She cannot count the number of repetitions that King Arthur has managed, as Saber of the Holy Grail War of Fuyuki and otherwise.

She has come so close, so many times, particularly in the Wars. But something has interfered at the last minute. Or there has been a betrayal. Or the Grail was corrupt from the start.

The truth of the matter is, Alaya has been cheating a little.

Should Saber lose, and not wish to continue, Alaya has kept those memories from returning to the King, letting them continue as a separate existence. Preserving the chance of an intact Contract with a Meddler who changed fate with nothing but her own will and the wills of those who gathered behind her.

But it is becoming increasingly clear that pursuit of the Grail is a human wish, a human quest. And though She is the Will of All Humanity, their incarnated determination to survive, endure, and change, in the end Alaya is no more human than Gaia, and does not truly understand humans.

_King Arthur does not understand human feelings._

One of the Knights of the Round Table said that, shortly before leaving Camelot.

Perhaps that is the problem?

Tapping metaphorical fingers on Her desk, Alaya considers.

It is very rare for Her to assign long-term, non-combat missions to Her Counter Guardians. So rare, in fact, that it usually only occurs if Her contractor bargained for compensation to take place after death, and was smart about it. Often, it involves the prospective CG wishing to undo a mistake made in life, or a situation they did not know of in time to fix; should they know that attempts at time-travel will only result in new facets of the Kaleidoscope, they may bargain for multiple attempts to enter the worlds similar to their own at a certain point and so make changes for the alternates of those they cared for in life.

The other main reason for such a mission is to avoid an important Meddler or Placeholder dying before their time. Not everyone is Hercules, able to strangle snake assassins in the crib, so this is actually a reasonable safeguard.

In either case, standard procedure takes a rare exception: the Counter Guardians are able to refuse the mission if they can give a provable reason, and they may also choose the format of their experiences, either in the usual after-action reports of a copy, or as actual memories that can be retained.

Alaya feels obliged, after hearing multiple rants from multiple Guardians on basic human rights, to offer them such.

Because long-term, non-combat missions differ in two other aspects.

First, the Guardian activated for such a mission must retain free will and a mind of one's own for success to occur, because it is the Guardian who is making the calls on the ground.

Second, the usual 'kill all witnesses' policy is not necessarily in effect. That would be rather counterproductive.

This isn't precisely either of those situations.

Alaya gazes at Camlann, at the grass stained red with blood. Rather like another Counter Guardian of Hers, unusual in the selflessness of his compensation and in his belief in the understanding of the deal he'd made – an understanding he'd quickly grown disillusioned of. The nature of his Reality Marble, allowing him to copy what he saw, reinforces his memories alongside the traditional after-action reports.

Why not?

She's not afraid to admit the normal methods are not working. A new situation requires a new protocol, which requires testing.

Mentally, She adjusts missions for the Wrought-Iron Hero from 'Automatic Acceptance' to 'Manual Review', then rises from Her chair and walks down the hall.

…

_**Clang, a beautiful sound.** _

**—That light. Only that sound is something I'll never forget all my life.**

_**No, the sound before me is heavier than steel.** _

**The sound of the bell that announces the commencement of battle.**

_**The armor she is wearing is not beautiful at all and as unrefined as the cold night.** _

**The beautiful sound from her flawless armor accompanies her figure.**

_**The sound wasn't beautiful at all.** _

_**It was actually the sound of steel.** _

_**It's just that the knight is beautiful enough to turn it into a charming sound like a bell.** _

_**"—I ask of you. Are you my Master?"** _

_**She asks in a voice that lights up the darkness.** _

**That voice is still clear.**

_**"I, Servant Saber, have come forth in response to your summons. From this time forward, my sword shall be with you and your fate shall be with me. Now, our contract is complete."** _

**That image in his memory did not erode over time; even now it is still deeply etched into his heart.**

_**Yes, the contract has been completed.** _

**The moonlight illuminated the darkness.**

_**When she chose me as her Master…** _

**That knight's figure appeared in the shed as if to reclaim silence.**

_**I'm sure I swore to help her too.** _

**As he thought to himself, that familiar name slipped out of his mouth.**

_**Time has stopped.** _

_**The scene lasts less than a second.** _

_**But…** _

_**I'm sure I'll remember this scene vividly even when I've gone to hell.** _

**He still cannot forget that blue light.**

**That blond hair bathed in the moonlight had texture as fine as grained gold.**

…

EMIYA comes back to himself with a pounding headache that signals updates to his Marble. Once, he would have mourned the hangover-worthy symptoms that didn't even come with getting blackout drunk beforehand to compensate for the pain afterwards.

Wait. That's not the forge-hammers of his Marble. That's the pounding of the door.

Blinking, he sits up slowly from his bunk, noting the red mantle and tail hung on the foot of the bed as usual. That's the uniform of a Hero, of Ciel's sometimes-partner against the Dead Apostles, of Tohsaka Rin's Servant. He won't dirty it with Cleaning. (Not unless he's on his regular rotation of the Seven, a.k.a. Guarding Gaia's Pet Hound Primate Murder, in which case he needs the protection anyway and doesn't mind, not against something that exists merely to slaughter humans, and if he restrains it well enough, there are no witnesses for him or anyone else to worry about, and why is he even bothering to justify this?)

_*I Know You Can Hear Me, Wrought-Iron Heroic Spirit.*_

Oh, lovely. His own personal slave driver, the one he was fool enough to willingly let collar him.

Automatically, despite his wish to rebel, he moves towards the door. His breastplate and boots, removed for bed, rematerialize on his body as he walks toward the door.

It opens at his touch. She enters.

Physically describing the Will of All Humanity is impossible. The most he'd ever manage, if someone were to ask, would be "androgynous female." Beyond that, he's somewhat aware from a few conversations post-Primate Murder rotations that She never appears the same way to anyone at a time. Some see Her clad in the bodies of those the viewer knew in life, which Alaya switches between depending on the situation. Others see a person so forgettable and nondescript that they cannot describe Her unless staring at Her directly.

EMIYA tilts his head to gaze into her eyes. She's smaller than him, as are most women and many men now. But like that distant dream of a star that he cannot forget even in hell, her presence fills the room, like carbon monoxide – subtle enough to be difficult to notice, but inevitably fatal in a sealed room in large enough quantities.

But as a Heroic Spirit, a Force of Nothing, he has no need to breath.

"A personal visit, Alaya? Has something happened to the army of secretaries?"

His voice is mocking as ever, saying trivial things to her that mean nothing at all, his face as blank as his sword. The only hint of his true attitude toward Her is smoldering in the embers lurking behind steel eyes.

He knows better than to waste words on rants of anger. Alaya may know every human emotion and concept that ever was and ever will be, but She does not comprehend what she knows, not truly. Impersonal and professional, with hints of lazy curiosity and impatience by rare turns, is the closest imitation to humanity that Alaya can make, even while She wears a human body.

Gods, he despises Her. The only person he despises more is himself for being too foolish to not see Her for what she was and care in time.

Alaya does not respond, waving him over to the chair next to the endless shelf of disorganized records. A second chair has appeared beside it, and She seats herself in it without asking for an invitation.

He realizes he is not feeling the pressure to sit, to imitate Her. He does so anyway. If She's given him temporary freedom in a hope that he'll make tea, too bad. He doesn't consider invaders to be guests. He only makes tea for himself and Rin. There are a couple others he would make tea for if asked, but generally, they don't, because he's usually not their ally, or even if he is, it's someone else's kitchen.

 _*You continue to return to the Grail Wars when summoned,*_ Alaya notes abruptly.

He raises an eyebrow. "Don't we all, if we receive the call?" Though he's carefully neutral, he's also mildly confused. Alaya's been aware since the few timelines he's managed not to get sliced open by Saber that his goal is a paradox. Up until now, he thought She was indulging him or did not care, believing his efforts will never amount to anything.

Is this merely a conversational lead-in, or has something changed? If there was a mission for him to clean up from one of the many Wars where Sakura has become the Dark Grail, he'd have been shuttled out automatically. Why is Alaya here in person?

_*You've yet to make it to the end of a single War as yourself. The times you donate your arm to the eventual pseudo-victor do not count.*_

He decides not to let on that he doesn't entirely know what She speaks of. Up until approximately 'last year' on Throne time, he'd have given a great deal to know why he ever makes that decision in the first place, but unfortunately he only ever gets a fragmented report back from a fragmented copy. Presumably it's to leave Rin a guard after he takes a mortal blow, but he isn't certain. He only has a slight clue now because Rin managed, in a timeline where she survived the war, to become Zeltrech's student, cross a few worlds over, and get the information to another summoned version of him, encoded into a sword that he could copy. But even with some idea of the events post his death, impersonal reports don't leave reasoning for him to piece apart…

_*What would you wish for, if you won, and your objective had been made unachievable earlier?*_

He senses a trap.

"Let's see… World Peace?" More likely, the Servant copy wishing would ask for his Origin on the Throne to be summoned to blend with himself and then spend a lifetime as Rin's familiar and bodyguard willingly. It would be terrifying in some respects, but it would be a nice vacation from hell with a temporary boss who wouldn't abuse his powers on anyone but the Dead, enemies who attacked her, and threats to her city. That was, of course, most likely if Emiya Shirou had already died at the hands of someone else, such as Illya or Caster, before he could make a move.

_*Is that so? And here I thought it would be for your sister to return to life and to live a full lifespan.*_

The chair arm creaks under his hand. Damn Her. She always pokes at Illya. She's the first person he knew he needed to save, yet found himself unable to despite months of research with Rin's help. In the end, all he could do was take her wishes for her burial arrangements and see them carried out exactly, Issei guiding him the whole way through so he didn't break down and mess it up. And then go out into the world and be a hero for everyone else, trying to make up for the blood she'd coughed up that he couldn't wash away.

He really wishes someone had suggested medical school to him earlier in life. Maybe he could have become a scalpel rather than a sword. But a blade's nature made it impossible to do anything but cut, and a sword's nature was limited to cutting others down. Anything else was a pretty lie, and he's never liked liars, particularly not himself.

_*Or perhaps you'd wish the best for that girl you can never strike down. Arturia, wasn't it?*_

EMIYA freezes.

Among the few mercies he's realized on the Throne (at least once his first, unanticipated summons to the Grail Wars occurred and brought his earliest memories to the foreground) is the fact that Saber's contract with the World had yet to be fulfilled, on either end. He's 'lived' here long enough to become aware that, at this point, it's becoming a bit of a joke to those aware of the fiasco it's become. He's lived here, through depression and disillusionment with his ideals, with only two hopes to sustain him: the wish to erase his own existence, and the joy that Saber, at least, is not experiencing the Special Hell alongside him.

_*Always waiting on the hill, among the corpses of her knights. Her 'son's' blood drying on her spear, her own drying on Mordred's blade. Copper and crimson and black, Mordred's colors, staining the landscape in death. Her own blue and white and silver, invisible everywhere except on her person. Unable to breath anything but her own blood.*_

Alaya cocks Her head. The smile's almost coy, but the flash of teeth ruins it. He forces himself to breath evenly.

_*She leaves it to fight for the Grail, and returns to the hill without it. Even I am beginning to have trouble keeping track of the number of times she's repeated this scenario, without consulting the Records.*_

Something curdles in his gut, like molten mercury. She's manipulating him and he knows it, but this is Saber, this is Arturia. That is all too often all that matters.

_*You have a long term assignment, EMIYA. So assume you're taking a break from the Wars and their wishes for a while now.*_

…What?

He cannot have heard that right.

But Alaya is pushing a file across the table.

 _*Your assignment is simple, if you choose to take it. For the equivalent of the next two weeks, you are to re-familiarize yourself with the Arthurian legends and the actual Records of events; you will have access to the main library for such.*_ A silver-black ring is placed next to the file; it's the equivalent of a master key for accessing the sections not already keyed into his identity, he realizes without being told. _*At that point, I will transfer you to Britain, within a few miles of Caliburn, a month before Arthuria draws Caliburn. You will be appropriately clothed and provided with some money, and the usual translation protocols will be active, so no issues there. You will remain there until you have averted Britain's destruction. You have carte blanche as far as your methods go, but you must ensure that Britain's destruction is averted, secure Arturia Pendragon's path and place on the Throne of Heroes, hand a Grail to Arturia Pendragon, and have her wish upon it.*_

Alaya leans back in Her chair, catching his eyes.

_*Do we have a deal?*_

There is a moment of silence, broken only by the bellows and hammers that never cease.

Then a crash resounds, as he stands, his chair overturned.

"Exactly how foolish and selfish do you think I am, _Alaya_?" The growl is worthy of the Hound of Ulster himself, a small part of his mind notes with satisfaction. "You're asking me to work around the loophole in _Your_ contract, because even though You're ultimately outside time, You can apparently still get impatient. You're asking me to help condemn someone else to this special hell I already live in?" Unable to get further words out, he makes an aborted gesture that, if completed, would doubtless demonstrate _precisely_ what he thinks Alaya should do with this deal of Hers.

"Why would You even assign this to me in the first place?!"

Alaya does not flinch at his volume, nor at the sudden blaze of the forge fires and the blast of smoke that wafts straight into Her 'eyes.' As if he needed more proof of her inhumanity.

"You just want to see me knowingly, willingly, fail to save someone—" He chokes off the _'someone I care for'_ before it comes out. He refuses to give her any more ammunition.

Alaya just stares at him. _*And here I thought you'd be glad!*_

 _"Glad?!"_ He reins in his temper before he overturns the table as well, but it's a near thing.

_*Well, yes. It's not often I offer 'vacations' to my Counter Guardian with the love of their life.*_

That one does make him flinch. If anyone else accessed his personal Record and used that phrase, he'd be certain they meant Luvia. Blonde and plum-eyed, with a rather obnoxious laugh but an undeniable lust for life that had drawn him in like the proverbial moth. She'd been the kick-ass princess to his adventuring hedge-knight, the first serious relationship he'd had that lasted long enough for all the mistakes to be made. She'd helped him keep the secret of the Reality Marble he hadn't even realized he was manifesting, working with Rin (the one time they ever willingly shut up and worked together without fighting) to help him gain the control to keep him from cutting himself and his bedmate apart in his sleep, as the swords sprouted under his skin with his nightmares. She'd pushed him into taking a break from magic and apprenticing with a traditional blacksmith to gain a better understanding of forging without illusions.

She'd been the one to diagnose him more thoroughly than Rin's short declaration of 'distortion,' during one of their many fights, telling him he was addicted to helping people, and his chosen family was only enabling the problem. If he'd accepted she might have a point and gotten help, maybe he wouldn't be here now. Instead he'd stormed off in anger at the perceived insult, chasing after rumors of a nuclear plant behaving oddly, and made a contract with Alaya when he found himself faced with a meltdown and realized he'd bitten off more than he could chew alone.

When she left him, the last words had been the hardest.

She'd asked if he loved her.

He'd protested that he did.

She shook her head, and told him that while he was physically faithful, he'd entered this relationship in love with someone else, and he was still in love with someone else.

He'd thought she meant Rin, at first, as unbelievable as that had sounded at the time.

Then he slept in his cold bed, alone in the apartment in a way that he hadn't been conscious of since his snow fairy left the ghost of her memory presence in the Emiya compound. And when he dreamed of the past, his partner was warm and blond and small and fair and dressed in blue and white, not with dark hair and dressed in red, and for a moment all was well. Until he noticed that she had green eyes, not plum.

The worst bit was when his execution came, and he had to watch Rin alone in the crowd. He'd refused to let her break him out. No one was above the law. Not him, and not her. She needed to concentrate on Fuyuki; the unexpected earthquake had ruined the leylines, and the consequences were still reverberating through her connections in the Clock Tower.

Unnecessary.

"I repeat, exactly how much of a fool do you think I still am? I know your contract with prospective CG Pendragon. It requires her winning the Grail on her own and wishing on it. What the hell does putting me in the past do to make that come true? Or are you planning on having _me_ play the king in her place and draw the sword?" He tugs at his hair.

Alaya shakes Her head in what may be approximate to amusement.

 _*Your assignment is only to avert Britain's destruction and ensure Arturia Pendragon becomes a Hero, placing the Grail in her hands so she may wish upon it. I care not what changes you make. I care not how you use my charity. I only wish the time loop and the contract that has brought so many troubling regrets to all sides to be completed and filed away.*_ She gestures to the files still on the desk in front of them.

_*Of course, if you don't think you can do it… I can always give it to someone else. I'm sure that CG DE SADE would have no problems completing it.*_

She isn't bluffing. The Marquis De Sade is regularly called upon in his CG duties for combat matters, but he is one of the few permanently taken off Primate Murder Rotations, simply because no one willingly works with him if warned ahead of time. If anything, history has blunted the edge of the man in person.

Set that loose in England? In Camelot's reach? And give the man carte blanche so long as the goals were accomplished? Not if Saber were his worst enemy.

EMIYA places his hand on the file, blocking Her from retrieving it. Not that She can't simply dematerialize it back into Her 'hands' if She's of a mind to. "You still haven't said why you're giving it to me in the first place, Alaya."

_*A great many of your questions would be answered if you just read the file, EMIYA. Shall I take it that you're interested after all?*_

"I'll read it. But I want you to answer that question first. Why me? Why go to all this extra effort in the first place? It's one contract."

Alaya looks very patiently at him. It vaguely stirs memories of various people trying to get a point across to him when he was being stubborn about accepting it. He refuses to blink, to back down, to submit in any form. He will have his answers about this.

_*Because it is Arturia Pendragon who I am contracting with. A Meddler in her own power, and willing to accept my aid as well? So much is possible with her that requires doing, particularly as humans find new ways to accidentally extinguish their species. And because you are the tool I have that knows her best, CG EMIYA, and so the most likely to succeed.*_

Alaya 'stands' from the table, and moves toward the exit. _*Take your time reading. I'll return for your answer in an hour.*_

The door swings shut behind her.

EMIYA collapses back in his chair.

_Saber… What the hell do I do now?_

He doesn't know how. He's done the impossible before, despite his non-existent Luck Rating, but that wasn't against enemies like Alaya herself.

But it doesn't matter. There is no way he is going to let Arturia Pendragon become a fellow Dog of Alaya. Not while he has a shred of influence in the matter.

Even if it damns him even further than he is now.


	2. I: In Which the King Meets a Blacksmith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the King is still Seventeen, and an idiot knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Really favorable response on the prologue (at least on ff.net -- more comments on ao3, please)! I’m glad you like! Thanks for all the lovely reviews, and please don’t hesitate to ask questions or offer suggestions – that’s my brain fuel!
> 
> Again, many thanks for the patience of Universe creator in helping me work out the details for this chapter and drafting the overall fic. And, most especially this chapter, for helping me with a certain time-traveler’s reaction to an unexpected surprise.

**_See, Fate has this nice, perfectly laid out path for everything. It intends to follow it, like weaving a tapestry. Unfortunately, the threads have free will. This disrupts the pattern. Threads with enough free will to actually make a new pattern, by inspiring other threads to follow their path rather than conflict directions into a confused, ugly tangle, are known as Meddlers._ **

**_Humans are a race of meddlers. It comes with Free Will. Humans exist, and are capable of thinking and forming opinions, and acting on said opinions. Quite often, acting on said opinions involves trampling the opinions of other humans. If a human has an opinion that he or she desires to make reality, and is stubborn enough to make it reality, that qualifies them as a meddler. A meddler who meddles enough will change the fate of not only himself, but a significant number of other people. If meddlers do so for enough people, they create a mark in history, left in the form of stories and legends, that will refuse to be erased even when the meddler dies. And if the stories last, like a glacier's path carved in the land, the meddler ascends to a Meddler, and is placed in the Throne, removing them from the cycle of reincarnation._ **

**_(Sub-designations of Hero/Anti-Hero depends on the reputation and deeds that their Meddling took form in.)_ **

**_This is to keep them from further meddling, except under controlled circumstances. Which allows the pattern of Fate's weaving to stay on track._ **

**\- From the thesis notes of an unidentified Clock Tower student**

…

_Britain, 526 A.D. On New Year’s Day, Arthur drew the sword of appointment for the first time._

_He would be crowned at the Feast of Pentecost, six months later._

_But his reign truly begins with the bells that rang in the New Year of 527 A.D., when he finished his twelfth battle at Badon Hill, and secured his kingdom with victory over the last of his rebellious lords._

_But it came at a cost: Caliburn was broken in the final battle. And there was still the crisis of a lack of successor._

_Merlin solved the first, bringing Arthur to the Lady of the Lake, and enabling the lifetime loan of Excalibur, the Sword of Promised Victory, and its scabbard, Avalon, with defenses and healing properties from the fairy realm._

_A queen would solve the second._

_Thus, negotiations for the hand of Guinevere, daughter of Arthur’s ally, King Leodegrance of Cameliard, began, even as the Court settled itself permanently in Camelot, some ways from Londinium._

_Where go knights, so must go squires and armorers and blacksmiths to shoe the horses and repair the mail and plate, and many other craftsmen of note._

_Of course, it isn’t the King who deals with the paperwork for all this._

_It’s the royal steward._

_Surely it was Arthur’s good foresight, that his first act as king was the appointment of his foster-brother, Sir Kay, to the position._

…

Perhaps she would have heard of him earlier if she did not have to spend the first six months after first laying hands on Caliburn in drawing and redrawing the Sword of appointment (first on New Year’s Day, then at the Feast of Epiphany a week later, then at Candlemas, then at Easter, and finally at Pentecost in June, when the commoners refuse any further delaying with ‘proof of verity’), and then the remainder of the year following her coronation in forcing the remaining grumblers to bend the knee and hold to their oaths via battle.

As it is, however, it’s the New Year all over again, and negotiations for her betrothal to Guinevere, daughter of King Leodegrance, have begun, when she first hears stories from her knights of the blacksmith who had recently set up shop in her growing capital.

It’s Kay who first meets the man in question, in his capacity as the Royal Steward. Processing the necessary documents to prove the man’s worth as a craftsman and his right to set up a forge, and not finding the usual recommendations from past noble customers, guildmasters, or proof of the man’s apprenticeship, he demands samples of the smith’s work.

The result sets him stomping into the Great Hall, growling and muttering under his breath, past a suspiciously serious Merlin.

(Arturia and Ector are growing increasingly nervous over what _that_ might presage; most recently, Merlin has grown fond of announcing various knight’s legitimacy and heritage in public by detailing the circumstances of their conception aloud. In the cases where this results in angry husbands, no less skilled with their swords for all that they’re of Sir Ector’s age and creaky with the years, Merlin’s teleportation alone is his ultimate safeguard. Even so, Arturia is trying to get the old magus to settle a bit. She’s got enough problems with the _already_ -rebelling lords without Merlin antagonizing the ones who’ve sworn loyalty.)

Arturia chooses, for the sake of her own peace, not to note a number of weapons arriving the next day. Kay might be impressed with the new smith’s _work_ , but he’s equally obviously determined to remain unimpressed by the smith himself, whoever he might be. Arturia herself is impressed enough with the tale she’s heard from his squire: the smith managed to soothe Kay’s often ill-tempered mare enough to re-shoe her in a single try. _Without_ any bribes of apples.

The King can win against her brother in pure contests of swordsmanship. But never has she won an argument once Kay was entrenched in position. It’s why she made him her steward; it means he gets to argue with everyone so that he can do his job. She’s never seen him as happy as when he’s continually grumbling.

But the first time she _meets_ the smith who set him to griping in the first place…

…

_Clang!_

Blade meets shield.

_Screech…_

Swords lock. Gazes lock. Eyes glare, refusing to break away, to be the first to retreat, forcing the pressure further…

_Whack!_

Another opponent in the dirt, crying a yield.

This betrothal tourney of King Leodegrance’s hosting is turning out remarkably well, she decides, mounting her steed for the final joust of the day. She’s already won the melee yesterday, and now she’s made it to the final match of the jousting, Guinevere’s favor tied to her arm. Two passes have unhorsed her current opponent, with the third having shattered both their lances. She hopes to decide the matter with this fourth pass.

Lances meet shields, and push at each other.

_Wham!_

Arturia blinks.

Earth stretches under her. The crowd’s roar vaguely makes its way to her ringing ears as she registers the packed earth beneath her through the chainmail and plate.

Has she failed, after all that?

But no, the crowds are cheering, and the Herald is announcing a double knock-out…

Staggering to her feet, bracing herself with the end of the remains of her lance, she waves a hand to signal consciousness, before attempting to find her visor and twist the helmet back to normal on her head. It ‘s obviously gotten turned around in her fall—

Hands grasp her gauntlets before they can even touch the visor. “Don’t, my liege,” Kay murmurs in her ear. “Let me. It’s dented at the joint.” A light murmur, then a curse, and the plate rattles around her head, somewhat closer than she is used to. “And you’ve managed to get your surcoat ripped, too; thank the Lord it didn’t catch in the saddle with you still attached and drag you over the ground –“ Another curse, another gentle tug. “Or there really _would_ be hell to pay. Honestly, you manage twelve battles without more than denting your armor, and now you lose your seat at the Candlemas tournament your future father-in-law is hosting? What will your bride-to-be think?” Giving up on the helm, Kay turns her, presumably to face the judges, and lifts her arm in victory to the crowd’s cheers.

Minutes later, he’s dragging her blindly in the dark, stumbling after him.

“What—“

“Remember two years ago, at my ‘practice’ with the quintain? Congratulations, my former squire. Now it’s your turn to visit the smiths’.”

And then she understands.

Like all squires learning to joust against, Kay started out against a rotating quintain, a dummy similar to a scarecrow but much stronger. One ‘arm’ had a battered shield attached, which Kay had to strike precisely before spurring his horse beyond its reach, for tied to the other arm was a weighted bag of sand. If he made his target correctly, the shield would spin about the arm, simulating a fall. But if he did not – well, the quintain would rotate, and the bag of sand would give him such a blow that it might well launch him from the saddle.

And one afternoon, the first time he was practicing in the weight of full mail and plate, Kay was launched so precisely that they all feared he’d broken his neck.

In fact, what he’d broken was his helm.

While it wasn’t at an angle that would damage his brain or his hearing, or even break his nose, it did make it impossible for her to remove it as his squire.

Arturia hears the roar of the bellows, and knows she’s correct.

Kay has brought her to the forges.

Armor is a smith’s business, after all. And sometimes, if the joints are ruined while the knight is still clad in plate and mail, it’s the smith’s job to pry it open.

“Hallo the smith! Are any of you lot still in there?”

Sometimes, they even have to do it while the knight is inside the armor.

“We’ve got a nasty fall from the last bout, and the helmet’s stuck. Is anyone free to—“

The footsteps stop abruptly. Arturia stumbles, barely catching herself on Kay’s shoulder.

_“You…”_

“Hmm?” A low tenor speaks, halting the bellows. There is the _hiss_ of steam, as hot iron meets water, and the shift of footsteps.

“As you can see, the only one available is me. So, what did _this_ idiot manage to do to himself?”

Arturia blinks.

‘Idiot?’

While she has heard many a cry of ‘bastard’ and ‘beardless boy’ and ‘royal pretender’ and ‘fraud’ over the last year, ‘idiot’ is a new one to hear from a stranger.

“’Idiot?’ You should be careful with your words, _smith_ ,” Kay snarls. He’s the only one allowed to pick on her, he’s informed her before; apparently it’s a privilege of older brothers. “Do you know who you see? Whom you speak to?”

Of course he doesn’t know, she realizes, groping vaguely at the tense arm in front of her. Why, oh _why_ , did her visor have to bend enough to cover her eyes? She wants to see what’s going on.

“I see a pair of young idiots who want me to fix the mischief one’s done to himself, the same way I do everyday,” the smith drawls back. Tall, from the direction of his voice, which explains a bit more of her brother’s ire; Kay hates people who look down on him, intentionally or not. “And I see that this one needs to be pried out of his armor. Well, come on then. I promise your skull won’t suffer further damage, at least.”

A strange hand grasps her by the shoulders, gently pulling her forward. Automatically, she follows, stepping by instinct.

How long has it been, since she was anything but a leader? How long has it been since she followed another? Surely not a mere year? Surely it’s been longer than a six-month since her crowning, when she followed the Archbishop to the altar, and knelt to receive the heavy crown?

(Following Merlin to fetch her new blade and scabbard does _not_ count. She might listen to his advice, but she hasn’t truly followed him, hasn’t followed anyone since she took up Caliburn.)

But now, oblivious to Kay as he sputters like a fire of green wood, she is following the smith.

“Completely blinded, aren’t you? No, don’t nod, and don’t try to talk, I don’t want you jostling this any further. It’s shifted enough already to make this tricky.” The smith tightens his grip to halt her. “We’re at the anvil. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to take one step to the right – good, now kneel, please. Do you know what’s going to happen?”

“Yes—“

“I just told you not to talk, boy!” Now he’s annoyed. Gods, the man is the most daring commoner she’s ever met! Some nobles would have his tongue already!

“If you need to communicate, here.” He’s bent her onto her hands and knees, as if in readiness for a switching, or to play ‘horse’ to a child; now he moves her hands to grasp the sides of the anvil. Beneath the helm, her face is bright as a cherry. “It’s cold, you won’t burn yourself. I just need pliers, chisel, and the small hammer for this,” he mutters, stepping away and then back towards her. “Do you know what has happened? I’m going to have to talk to you to make sure you’re staying conscious while I do this, and I expect you to reply.”

“And how is he supposed to answer? You just told him not to talk!” Kay speaks her own thoughts.

She can almost imagine the look the man gives in reply, thoroughly unimpressed. For all he sounds young, if raspy, he acts her father’s age, or older.

“He can tap the side of the anvil, if he doesn’t move his hands. Once for pain, twice for yes, and three times for no. Now, answer. Without moving your jaw and the helmet with it.”

Arturia taps her right gauntlet three times.

“You can’t give him orders! That’s the –“

There is a sharp _clang_ , as the smith sets his tools back down.

“I don’t care if he or you is the Emperor of Rome! All I see are a couple idiotic boys too big for their britches and trying to throw their weight around! He’ll be _hurt_ if you keep trying to distract me while I do this. If you can’t be quiet long enough to let me concentrate on prying the lad’s skull out _without_ squishing his head like the meat in a clam, you can stay outside. This is _my_ forge. Let! Me! Work!”

Kay tries to get another word out, but judging by the stumble, he’s ended up outside the door again.

“About time,” the stranger mutters.

That’s when Arturia realizes she is alone, with a man she doesn’t know, without a weapon, and completely blind.

Before she can panic, his shadow is standing over her.

“Now then, just to make sure. You’re still conscious and able to hear?”

His voice reminds her of the master at arms, talking her through drills. She’s tapped an affirmative before she knows it.

“Good. Alright, just to be sure you understand and aren’t just being stubborn about questions – your helmet is dented enough that we can’t just pull it off without yanking your head off, too. As such, I have to pry it off piece by piece. It’s long, and noisy, and I need you not to move. But if you can stay quiet, we should have you free in a couple hours, alright?”

This is a man, Arturia realizes, who does not know how to speak to people, or at least is fairly sure he can’t. He talks to her the way she’s seen the ostler sooth skittish horses. Come to think of it, if this man shoes horses, he probably has experience doing just that, soothing them through the procedure. It’s gruff, but not condescending.

“I need an answer, boy.”

A man who won’t do a thing to her without her permission.

She taps affirmatively.

“Right. We’ll start with the back of your neck.”

He carefully turns her head in place to the right; it’s a relief not to feel as though she’s rehearsing a march to the executioner’s block anymore.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls at the damaged rivets, detaching one side of the visor from the lower neck. Sometimes he halts to ask her a question. Once, when he’s gotten her jaw free, he offers a bit of leather for her to bite.

He grumbles about the idiocy of whoever invented the idea of jousting tournaments in the first place. He grumbles about the notion of jousting in the first place, of more young men seeking death through accidents in peace, than as casualties in war.

Once, he stops. “Your padding has come loose, and the laces tangled in the rivets before they crushed together. Didn’t you bother to check this sort of thing between passes?”

Arturia hesitates, then taps a no.

“Figures. Overconfident young fool. If I didn’t need your head to stay still, I’d smack it for this, noble or no.” He begins twisting the rivets apart, carefully finishing detachment from her gorget.

Put like that, she can hardly do anything but accept the reprimands.

This is a man, she is certain, who may well have had to pry corpses from their armor for burial. Or attempt to pry out the bodies and have them become corpses in his attempts to free them for the physicians. He speaks with the same voice that Merlin did, when the magus had to stop her at Badon Hill. When she would have pursued without even noticing her sword had broken.

She’s ordered twelve villages cannibalized to win those twelve battles. She hopes he wasn’t from one of them.

No. The King must not have any regrets.

_Tap!_

“I thought I said I expected you to respond when I asked a question, brat.”

Brat?! Who does he –

“This is to check you’re staying conscious and with intact ears, you know.” He’s rolled back enough of the visor that she can feel air on her mouth, now, and has begun to separate the rivets that connect the lower anterior panel, revealing the back of her neck and the base of her skull, or at least the padding that covers them. Sweat coats her face.

“I’d offer you a drink, but I fear there’s nothing but the water for cooling swords in here. Still, it’s almost off. You’ll need to replace the padding, though; some of it is folded into the dents in your helm.” His tone is gruff, but clinical.

“You really did a number on this, you know. Knocked off your decorative crest completely from the top, the decoration in the armor is scratched beyond any recognition, and once I’m done prying you out of it, it’ll be nothing but high-quality scrap.” Another rivet gone, and he pauses. “I’m turning your head now.”

He suits actions to words, gently lifting and tilting. The helmet never moves, despite precariously hanging open; her nose never brushes the dent.

Her ear is chilled when he lays it against the anvil; that’s one bit of padding he had to remove.

“You’re one of the lot who fought at Badon Hill, aren’t you?”

She taps an affirmative.

“Thought so. You wouldn’t be wealthy enough to afford a full kit in plate otherwise. Next time, get your armor checked after a battle if you can manage it, and always before you enter a tourney. I found a whole host of weak spots that need maintenance around the neck alone, and several indications that the helm should have been replaced before today.”

She had thought that her squire had checked it. But she isn’t allowed to speak, and she has a feeling she wouldn’t be allowed to get away with that excuse if she offered it. Because this is the kind of man who will double check his apprentices’ work until he trusts them, and then check again because he worries.

One last rivet, and the neck plate is free. He turns to tapping above her ears now, the echoes of chisel and pliers reverberating above her temples.

Finally, a long while later, he turns her head again, releasing the visor and top front as one. “I have to cut through the laces of the padding to release the rest. Hold still.”

Several short cuts past her ear later, as she stares at the anvil and the wall, a hint of dark, too-warm skin slipping in and out of her vision, and he’s pulling away the last of the weight at the top and back of her skull.

“All right. You can sit up now.” His silhouette steps away from her to the wall, where he sets down his tools and wipes his hand on a rag. He’s tall and muscled, arms bare with muscles. Behind the grime of the forge, he has darker skin than she’s used to seeing, even among the Welsh or Bretons, yet hair whiter than any grandfather’s peeks from under his leather skullcap. He’s clad in close-fitting homespun weave, with high neck and uncuffed sleeves rolled up, and long pants, with long leather apron and leather boots and gloves, all of it black from soot. This man is paid well for his work, and has put it into his forge and garb to pursue his craft further.

“And now that you can talk,” the smith wipes a rag over his face, “we’re going to talk through exactly what sort of care you need to double-check your armor with in the future, without relying on your squire.” He raises his voice. “You can come in now, boy; your friend’s alright.”

Even as Kay is already pushing his way inside, followed by Sir Ector, the smith is turning back toward her.

“So, who have I had the pleasure of hosting in my forge these last three hours, and who am I charging for my time and efforts?”

Arturia lifts her head to meet his eyes, unlacing the last of the padding at her throat and head, and pulling it aside, shaking her sweaty blonde locks free.

It’s the first time the smith has gotten a proper look at her face. With her armor damaged and her surcoat torn away, it’s the first chance he’s had to identify his customer.

His breath catches, and his eyes go wide with recognition.

Arturia freezes as well, only halfway risen to her feet.

(He knows, something in her whispers, he knows and now he’s going to apologize and speak only to the King and not the knight, no one ever speaks to the young knight anymore except for Kay and Sir Ector and Merlin and she hadn’t even realized how much she missed being human, but she’s not allowed to be, she’s the King, she’s a he, he’s the King –)

A ripple of emotions dance across the blacksmith’s face, swifter than dappled sunlight or ripples on a pond, shadows in his eyes. She cannot read his thoughts, but then, she cannot read the thoughts of any stranger not met in battle. She is surprised at how much she wants to, in this moment.

In the end, his face settles on honest, mild discomfort, mixed with a disconcerted frown. His arms fold over his chest, as if uncertain what to do with themselves. It’s strange to see such a large, powerful man as awkward as a yearling colt with a growth spurt.

“Well.” He coughs, scans the ground, and apparently decides there is no way he can safely kneel (as would be proper) in such cramped quarters. He compromises with a respectfully deep nod. "Good day, Your Majesty." When he brings his head back up, Arturia is surprised to see not the slightest hint of regret or fear in his expression. Instead, he gazes at her coolly and with respect, even as the smallest of smiles tugs at his lips. "That will be a shilling and three pence for the metal and my time, and the advice is free."

For a moment she stares back, uncomprehending. Then a tiny grin crosses her own lips, and she can’t bring herself to bite it back.

There’s a small moment of panicked embarrassment when she recalls that her coin-purse is back in her tent, before Sir Ector drops it into her hand with a fond smile. The smith snorts, trading an amused glance with her foster-father, as if to confide this isn’t the first knight in armor who he’s seen have that particular memory lapse today.

Even worse is when she realizes that her smallest coin is a crown. That makes the smith uneasy too, as he scrounges through his moneybox for enough coins to avoid overcharging her.

“What might your name be, Goodman Smith?” she enquires as he places the money in her hand.

“Farran, Your Majesty. Archer Farran the smith.”

“I thank you, Smith Farran, for my intact head.” What else to say? She needs something else. “You have a shop in Camelot?”

His brow quirks. “I do, Your Majesty.”

“Well, then, expect more business to come your way in the future, Smith Farran. Good day.” With one last nod, she exits the tent, the remains of her skull padding under one arm, her foster father and brother beside her.

She’s never thought she’d meet a man besides her foster father who can put both Kay and herself in their places.

Especially one who makes it clear, title or no title, he considers the ‘lad’ whose head lay on his anvil to be just another idiotic knight he has to deal with to keep business running.

This is not the last she will see of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it’s a wrap.
> 
> Now, content notes:
> 
> Timeline: I am basing my timeline mostly off the events listed in Le Morte D’Arthur when not contradicting Fate canon. Fate canon as best as I can track it down is used whenever possible, and I am double checking with Universe Creator to keep the pacing correct. I’ll add a more detailed timeline as we go further along in the story. For now, it’s enough to know that it took Arturia six months of drawing and redrawing Caliburn to prove it wasn’t a fluke before she was crowned, and another six months of rattling steel to settle the rebels. We are currently at Candlmas (February 2), where her prospective father-in-law has hosted a tournament to celebrate the engagement. The wedding is planned for the Feast of Pentecost, in June, the anniversary of the coronation.
> 
> Armor: The helmet I imagine Arturia to be wearing is better known as a ‘great helm.’ Technically it didn’t come into use until several centuries after this, but since the design closely matches the helmet of Fate/Zero’s Berserker, I figured it worked. It’s also one of the simplest helmets to put together, incidentally, and therefore one of the easiest to figure out how to take apart. Earlier helmets don’t have the convenient visor to hide your face and create the situation I needed as well.
> 
> Helmet removal by blacksmith: I couldn’t make up this situation if I tried. It actually did happen, pretty regularly. Arturia’s actually lucky that this is what she was wearing. (Imagine trying to dig chain mail links out of your scalp instead, if I’d gone with a more historically accurate armor. Ugh.)
> 
> Archer’s name: EMIYA is too foreign, and would get him noticed instantly. So I went with his class name as something that wouldn’t be out of place. ‘Farran’ is from an English surname, derived from Old French ‘ferrant,’ which translates as ‘iron grey.’
> 
> Medieval coinage: If you guys can prove corrections for the pricing, I’m all for it. This is the best estimates we could come up with.
> 
> For those who care to know:
> 
> {1 Sovereign= 20 shillings  
> 1 Half-Sovereign= 10 shillings  
> 1 Guinea= 21 shillings "small sovereign"}= King/noble money  
> 1 Crown or "dollar"=5 shillings  
> 1 Shilling=12 Pence
> 
> To put this in perspective: An armorer might earn about 24 shillings a month, taking into account that it took about a week to make a cheap sword (about 6 shillings), which would get ruined fairly quickly. (Legally, everyone with a certain amount of wealth was required to own and maintain some armor and weapons, even if it was just quilted leather. Reasonable, given the amount of conflict.) By giving him a ‘Crown,’ worth 5 shillings, Arturia is accidentally forcing Archer to give her, in change, what is quite possibly all the other money he’s earned today.


	3. II: A Table for a Dowry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A proposal is made, a blacksmith is still reeling…
> 
> And Merlin… is planning something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit freely to much inspiration from Shakespeare’s ‘Henry V,’ particularly ‘The Hollow Crown’ and Tom Hiddleston’s portrayal of Prince Hal/Henry V, in writing both king and prospective bride. Conversations between Kings I can write. Lectures I can apparently write (or so you tell me from the last chapter). Romance between teens who only have vague ideas of what love and marriage entails outside the political aspects? Ugh.
> 
> There are a couple lines quoted from the recent ‘Garden of Avalon’ novel, partly translated over at Beast’s Lair.
> 
> And those who hunt for hidden gems: yes, there is a T.H. White ‘The Once and Future King’ reference in this chapter. See if you can spot it.
> 
> Thanks for the reviews, guys! Keep it up!

**_There is another option, widely speculated, but never confirmed, to enter the Throne. This option is not usually done with the intention of becoming a Hero; if anything, it is a side effect, and usually creates an Anti-Hero. The option is to make a contract with the World, or more specifically, with the Will of Humanity._ **

_**It's actually well known enough to show up in mundane legends with countless nameless protagonists. It comes with the attached warning signs, too, because this option is better known as a Deal with the Devil. Also known as a Faustian Bargain.** _

**_The terms are simple enough. The contractor wants to materialize his or her opinion, make a wish reality. This is often a desire for immeasurable knowledge or power. It is always something that the contractor feels he or she cannot achieve on his or her own power._ **

**_So the Will of Humanity does it for them, or empowers them to do it. Whichever the contractor specifies._ **

**_In exchange, whatever afterlife the contractor might have been destined for normally is signed away. Their soul is Alaya's, to do with as She pleases. (And use as She pleases, She most certainly does.)_ **

**\- From the thesis notes of an unidentified Clock Tower student**

…

King Leodegrance of Cameliard is a wise and just King, but her father’s true nickname should be ‘Oath-keeper,’ Guinevere feels. His trustworthiness is so assured that the High King, Uther Pendragon, left him guardianship of the Great Table, for whenever his heir appeared.

And now that an heir has come, and asked for not just the Table, but for her – first her favor for the Tournament, and now her hand – she must give an answer as her father pleases.

Her father is an honorable and trustworthy king, who serves his people as much as they serve him, in peace and war alike. But he is also a kind father. If Guinevere had told him early in the negotiations that she did not feel she could stand the eyes that would come with being the Queen, eyes that would confine her to her sewing needle and spinning wheel and loom and household running and quiet, gentle smiles no matter how she felt on the inside, he would have tried to find some other way to secure their alliance. Declared her too young for marriage, perhaps, though that would not be believable long, not when she has bled as a woman regularly for a year.

But Guinevere has been raised to know her duty to her people: the fair price for the luxuries she enjoys is that she must lead them in the realms that are her domain to govern, just as her father does in his. Just as the mother she barely remembers did.

It is a private bit of selfishness, perhaps, that Guinevere is thankful for her gender’s restrictions at times. (Not often, mind you. There is so much she can avoid as a girl that she could not as a boy; with the exception of horses, she generally prefers her books and her letters, no matter if it makes her squint. Armor clanking is always so _noisy_ , and why does shoving each other around with swords gain you any glory if you're not protecting your home with your life by necessity? It never makes any sense to her. No more than a pack of growling kennel hounds, fighting over bones already picked clean.)

(If only her gender did not restrict her from riding out whenever she liked, without an escort or giving notice to any, she could be quite content with her lot.)

A woman cannot lead in war. If one could, perhaps Uther’s queen might have served as Dux Bellorum in his place after his death, or perhaps one of her daughters by her first husband Gorlois might have done so. But a woman’s role is limited, particularly one born to her station.

Guinevere can marry and act as a peacekeeper, a living treaty between her family and her husband’s, providing heirs with ties to both sides of the alliance. A permanent ambassador of sorts, and one who cannot be harmed without angering both parties.

She can retire to a convent, and serve the Christian God, passing her days in quiet prayer and solitude. (Assuming the raiders and warlords respect such sanctuary; not all of them do.)

Unfortunately, the lack of any surviving siblings, male or otherwise, limits her options to the former. Perhaps her father once planned to adopt one of his more favored and well-tested knights as a son, using a marriage to her to secure their family.

But then the siege came. And when all seemed lost, Arthur appeared out of the chaos, to help Leodegrance where no one else could have.

An alliance in the face of such aid delivered was predictable. The main condition of that alliance, on Arthur’s side, was… not as expected.

But it is not one that can easily be gainsaid, either.

“One does not turn down the High King when he asks for a lady. Gorlois learned that when Uther first eyed Igraine,” her father reminded his advisors when they suggested doing just that, unaware that Guinevere herself was on the landing above their head and able to hear all whether she cared to or not.

(Guinevere still isn’t entirely sure what ‘eyeing’ means, even if she’s certain it’s more than simply staring at someone else, and the maids won’t tell her, and the nuns talk around it. She hopes it doesn’t mean that her betrothed is a bully off the battlefield as well as on it. She is fairly certain that it might mean that his father was.)

Now, however, her father shows no such signs of distrust, only shrewd negotiation that gives nothing away as he discusses details of their alliance with her betrothed and his foster brother and father.

(Merlin, Arthur’s advisor, is conspicuously not in attendance. Guinevere has heard a few half-conversations, quickly hushed when she is noticed, of his reputation and habits. She is almost certain that the reason she is unusually allowed to be openly present for this bartering is partly because her father wants her under his eye when Merlin is not available to be watched.)

“Well, I believe this is the most of it,” Sir Ector speaks up, straightening from the documents with a wince. “Unless there is something else you wish to consider?”

Her father observes his counterpart for a moment, a thin smile tracing his lips. “It is not I you should ask that question of.” Walnut eyes flick to the youth, golden locks nearly matching the circlet on his head. Guinevere realizes, unexpectedly, that she’s yet to see the young King’s face when not obscured by his helmet. Usually etiquette requires her not to be looking, but it’s still disconcerting to realize she has no idea what color his eyes are.

“You’ve yet to ask my daughter anything, or even speak with her, as far as I can see, Your Majesty. Do you not like her in person, perhaps?”

It’s a bold move, perhaps too bold, but Leodegrance has a lifetime of experience and a week of observing the new monarch to make his judgment on. And it is a necessary challenge to make. He cannot give her to someone who will not speak to her beyond the necessary formalities. She’s already going to have to leave everyone else behind except for a few ladies. If Arthur wants out, he needs to speak now, and compensate Leodegrance for the disgrace.

King Arthur is startled, but instantly apologetic. “Forgive me, King Leodegrance; I have not had much of a chance to speak to her outside the public eye.” He hesitates, then continues carefully, eyes somewhere between her and her father, unsure of whom to address his words to and risk insult to either. “If the lady would speak privately, I would like the chance to talk.”

Her father’s eyes narrow, but he nods slowly. “Find your magician so he can stay under my eye, and keep the chaperones of both Sister Enid—“ he nods to today’s companion, sitting with her Bible in the corner, “—and your foster father. Sister, please stay within eyesight of my daughter. You may stray from earshot if they request it.”

As if summoned by his name (much like his often rumored patriarch), the wizard himself enters the double doors, apparently oblivious to the guards’ efforts to stop him. “Is all going well? Your ‘crown removal’ has made the rounds of the castle twice over now, sire.”

Tension and relaxation settle anew in the blonde youth; the kingly mask is back in place, but not enough to hide the irritation with both the mage and his tidings. Guinevere notes to herself to limit her conversation to his performance in the melee, and avoid the jousts and the visit to the blacksmith that it seems half the castle eavesdropped on and is still discussing a week later.

Sir Kay evidently has experience handling the mage. In the smoothness of a well-practiced maneuver, his left hand sneaks out, and grips the hood at the neck, pulling just enough to unbalance Merlin, while he secures the documents with his right. “We’ll finish looking these over down the hall, shall we? Out, magus; my liege and foster brother can do his wooing without your interference or your commentary. Let’s go and settle those matters of state you’re so fond of meddling in.” And with that, he pulls the magus along, though it’s easy to see the wizard is humoring him in going along with the tug.

Leodegrance takes the hint, and follows swiftly after with barely a nod to his daughter, leaving Guinevere alone with the nun, the aged knight, and the young stranger-king she granted favor to as a political accessory, since the one she’d prefer to wish luck to was not there.

(Where are you, old friend? Why did you stop writing?)

She’s uncertain what to say, and grateful that the rules of etiquette require that Arthur begin, giving her the words to build upon.

When the silence begins to strain, she raises her eyes in puzzlement.

The King is…  _fidgeting_ … for there is no other word she can use… with the hilt of his new sword, still encased in his scabbard.

Puzzled, she allows her eyes to trace past him – and understands. Enid is a nosy old gossip, for all that she’s one of the nuns that actually remembers how to smile, and her eyes are trained on them sharply. Ector stands between his son and her chaperone, as puzzled as herself. Then he follows Guinevere’s gaze, and understanding sparks the warm brown.

“I hear the late Queen Alinor was a great maker of tapestries. Will you tell me if this is her work, Sister Enid?” He has intentionally chosen the depiction of the mystical beastiary on the wall behind Enid, which has the dual benefit of forcing the nun to turn her direct gaze off of the betrothed couple, and leaving their conversation muffled by the adults, rather than open to the echoes of the hall.

It gives Guinevere courage to break manners and begin the conversation herself.

“You did well in the tourney, my lord King. Though that is not the same sword that I saw you use there,” she offers. Neutral enough, once she added the second sentence.

Eyes still shadowed by his bangs, he seems to attempt to smile, but the result is closer to a look of polite attention than anything more positive. “Thank you for your kindness, my lady, but we all know how my last match ended.” His tone is rueful, one who has taken in the facts and already formed a conclusion. “Farran the Smith was as sharp with his words as he was careful with his tools, but the lecture on caring for my own armor was well-deserved.”

Ah, so that bit isn’t just rumor. Guinevere allows herself to laugh; she’ll have to see about getting her own horse’s hooves checked and possibly fitted with new shoes, if only to meet the man. “Are you comfortable in the court without your armor?”

It’s only a jest, but the King treats it seriously, giving it thought before nodding. “Yes, I believe so. Leodegrance’s court has not much changed in the few years since I last visited.”

“Y-You’ve been here before, sire?” That surprises Guinevere, with good reason. The very reason the country has been so divided by infighting is the general understanding that Uther had died without an heir. Of course, the world knows now that Arthur was being raised in secret. But now he tells her that he came to another king’s court and risked that secrecy? What could have been worth it? And when did he do it? And how did he get away without being noticed?

He nods. “On business with my lord and foster-father, Sir Ector, and an… old friend.” His mouth twists wryly at the last bit, as if unsure if that is the best description, but unable to come up with another. “I was thirteen.”

There is another silence, as Guinevere tries to think of a response to this new information.

“Do you like living in Cameliard, my lady?” He breaks it first.

Guinevere considers. “I like it well enough.” And it is true, either way he takes it.

He nods. “What do you most enjoy doing, my lady?”

… He really is bad at conversation past the formalities. Or maybe he’s as nervous as her.

She shrugs. “My books, I suppose, and horseback riding. I haven’t many friends my age, and those I do have don’t all live here. One of them hasn’t returned my letters in over a year.” It surprises her, how honest she’s being with a stranger.

“Oh? Would she be willing to serve as your companion, perhaps?” Curiosity sparks the bland tone.

Guinevere laughs at the easy mistake. “I do not think _he_ would enjoy wearing dresses and sewing, Your Majesty. Horseback riding as my guard and escort, perhaps. But we only met once in person, I fear, and he had to rescue me from my own folly then, gallant that he is.”

She pauses, remembering his curiosity about so much she had taken for granted. The afternoon she’d spent explaining class differences, and what a kingdom had to store for winter. The tree she’d gotten stuck in while going after apples, and how he’d gotten her down.

“I only hope he remembers to stay warm – he’d give up his own jacket if he thought someone else needed it more! He really does need to spend more time remembering to take care of himself. Or find someone to do it for him. But he’s the bravest and kindest person I’ve ever met.”

It’s no wonder she’s dreamed of the future with him, of girls with green eyes and red locks, of boys with chestnut eyes and flax curls.

“He’s going to be a great knight someday. And a great father. I know it.” Even if she doesn’t quite know all of how children are made (the talk after her monthlies, from the nuns, went a little over her head, after covering the mechanical aspects of rags and taking care of the blood), besides the fact that it takes a man and a woman, and that the mother and child don’t always survive the pregnancy and birth, she knows that’s important. Not every daughter is as lucky in fathers as she is.

Stupid. She shouldn’t prattle about another boy when she’s here with this one. No one would enjoy the implication that she’d prefer someone else to be present instead.

“You say you were at court? What business did you do there?”

“Not much, I fear; that was mostly my lord Sir Ector and the… family friend. I spent most of it surprised at the noise and bustle of the city, and hiding with the horses.” He pauses. “I did meet one friend there, who I would hope to reconnect with.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I was out of apples to bribe my brother’s steed with, and went looking to resupply from the courtyard’s fallen fruits. Instead, I found a girl with the same idea had gotten stuck in the upper branches, her skirt caught.” His mouth twitches. “I had to get her to jump down, and catch her. She taught me a great deal about ensuring how and what to supply an army with as a thank-you.”

Guinevere stills.

“I-is that so, sire?”

Surely not…

“Indeed. It took several letters to finish the conversation. She’s a good friend, though I imagine she will be cross with me; I haven’t written since I first drew the sword of appointment, I fear.”

If she’s wrong, it will just take a look…

Guinevere hesitates. Then, in an outright breach of etiquette, she lifts her lowered eyes and head, and stares Arthur straight in the eyes, no longer hidden by the shadow of his bangs or crown.

Green eyes.

_“Don’t worry. I’ll catch you, my lady.”_

“You…”

_“I did not know so much was required to keep an army running.”_

_“Less than you think, my lord. You could probably scavenge the contents from a single village – so long as you picked the village bare and took it apart.”_

“You said your name was Wart!”

Now Arthur does laugh, a hoarse, unpracticed chuckle, and something in Guinevere aches to hear it.

“And it is – my foster brother’s nickname for me, anyway. I apologize for the deception, old friend.”

“You’re terrible!” But she’s laughing too, and it’s a happy sound.

“And for the lack of contact. So much attention is on the king, and it is difficult for the letters to get through without notice… but no, I have neglected our friendship, and I apologize for that.” Guilt lies far in the back of green eyes, but it’s there.

“We both know what I’m here to ask. But there’s something else I need to tell you first, especially now. And if you say no afterwards, I will accept that.”

She’s tempted to protest that there is nothing he could tell her that would affect her answer, but she’s read enough tragedies to know that’s a bad idea. So she nods, puts aside her sewing (which is close to making a literal bloody mess of her fingers anyway) and folds her hands in her lap, attention on him.

“You know some of why I was hidden in the first place, I believe. Merlin foresaw my father’s death, and there was enough discussion of my… early birth for it to be debated if I was his child at all.”

“Political security,” Guinevere confirms. She has to prove she’s ready to help him, even if this is a bit more to take care of than just the lands of a single knight, as she once dreamed.

“Indeed. But – there was another reason Uther did not entirely deem me a suitable heir. I had every quality he desired, save –“ Is he _blushing_? “May I be blunt, my lady?”

She’s never seen him so unsettled that she can remember. His constant confidence in victory has always attracted her. What could have changed that? Half-discovered hopes and fears war together, and she can do nothing but nod and give him her best smile.

“Very well. I must ask you not to speak of this to any other. Not even your father. No matter what answer you give me afterwards – please, keep this secret.”

Secrets from her father? Before she marries, and her loyalty passes to her husband? “You have my word,” she hears, and realizes it’s her voice. She can’t take it back now.

Arthur’s lips firm. “I – have deceived you and the whole realm to do it service, my lady. I am the King, but I am not a man, or even a boy. I am a girl.”

Guinevere blinks.

“I have lied to you about my identity twice over now, and you know it. And still I ask, will you wed me, Guinevere, despite that?”

“W-What?” She cannot have heard that right –

Her eyes dart to Arthur’s throat, where a clasp and collar cover any sign of the Adam’s Apple. To the long hair, pulled in a somewhat feminine bun out of the way – Arthur’s using the ribbon she gifted as a favor to hold it in place. To the small frame, thin from sword practice, shorter than her if they both stand.

Arthur – Wart – whatever her name is – is asking Guinevere to marry her, and be her Queen. To run the household, and the kingdom. But any other responsibilities, any duties and pleasures of a normal wife, will be gone with this. Guinevere may be naïve, but she knows that it takes a man to be a ‘proper husband,’ whatever else that entails besides fathering children.

And she may have been little when her mother died, but she remembers the words when her mother could not provide a living male heir.

Without a proper husband, Guinevere will not be able to provide an heir at all. And she will receive all the blame for it.

“I know. It is too heavy a burden, and I should not ask you.”

What? Has she spoken that aloud? Her eyes dart to the end of the hall, but their companions are deep in conversation and have not heard.

“Then why ask at all?” She gasps aloud, staring at the girl in man’s clothing and man’s crown.

The girl-king looks down.

Then the golden-haired knight removes his crown, sets it on his unused chair, and kneels in front of the auburn haired maiden, taking her wrist in hand.

“Because I am still Wart. I’m still your friend, or at least I want to be, even if I didn’t tell you everything. The time we shared and the letters we wrote are no lies, Gwen. And there are a lot of things that I do not know, particularly how to be human.

“Because I am still Wart, but I must push that aside to be the king. I can run a kingdom, and win battles, but I do not know how to care for the humans I rule beyond that.

“Because I know you are trustworthy with secrets, and so I do not mind removing my armor for you. I am not in love with you, but I do care, and I will always protect you and look after you. I know you’re stronger than you ever let on to the world, and I want to keep that by my side. I want to repair this kingdom, and I need your help for that.

“And finally, I need this alliance. It gave me an excuse to offer for your hand, and to tell you the truth I always felt guilty for hiding. But it also will help keep a still loosely-bound kingdom together, and there is no one else I know who I can ask to be the queen I need, no one else I know enough to trust.

“Now that you know, I must ask you. Guinevere, will you marry me and be my queen?”

How can the knight ask that? How can the King give all these reasons?

She hesitates.

But this is Wart asking, even if Wart isn’t quite who she thought. And she knows that her friend will take on this task of saving a doomed country without ever thinking of what it will do to the person carrying such a weight. She can’t let him bear it alone.

She thinks once more of her dreams of green-eyed children with her auburn hair, and then sighs, and pushes them away forever.

“That is as it shall please my father, sir,” she says, deliberately loud enough to catch Enid’s attention, proffering her hand to the knight. “If it should please him – I would be delighted to accept the honor you give me.”

Her eyes are closed to keep back tears when she hears the murmured, “Thank you,” and the soft brush of lips over fingertips, before they move to her ear.

“My birth-name is Arturia Pendragon. It is a poor gift for this service, but it is the least I can give you in return.” Her hand is released, and the knight steps away to return to propriety.

She scarcely notices when her father returns to the room, except when he asks if she has consented, and she affirms it.

“Would there be anything else you desire of me, in return for this? If there is anything I can do, any more reassurance I can make you of my sincerity—“ Arthur must be speaking of the alliance and treaty, which she vaguely notices is laid out over the map.

“Nay, I trust your word. A king of noble mind, true lineage, and proven mettle is a fine husband, now that my daughter has agreed. So long as you make her happy, all is well.” Leodegrance has relaxed now, even if he never takes one eye off the cloaked wizard.

“Nor shall you go empty-handed to your marriage,” her father continues, turning to her. “It is the usual course of things to offer lands, and while I might offer mine, you say you have enough of your own to content yourself with. So, I will give you something that will hopefully please you better: the Round Table entrusted to me by Uther Pendragon, the great oaken table with places for one hundred and fifty knights.” He smiles, but his eyes remain serious. “One hundred knights I can send with it, to fill your ranks, my liege. But the last fifty seats I cannot fill, for such is the number lost in the years of fighting since your father’s death.”

“I understand,” Arthur – Arturia (what is she supposed to call her… betrothed now, even in her thoughts?) – the King nods seriously. “I suspect there will be more than a few candidates to compete over the remaining seats.”

They step to the table, hot wax ready and waiting by the ink and quills. They scrawl their names, and Guinevere copies hers, and Sir Ector and Sir Morris sign as witnesses. The Kings bare their signet rings, and stamp them in the hot wax.

And that’s it. She’s good as married, as soon as her father confirms his chosen alternate heir and she signs away her remaining rights to Cameliard. Even if the actual wedding is reserved for St. Stephens, and the wedding night…

The wedding night is not an issue, except for how she’ll be expected to conceal something happening.

Guinevere only hopes she hasn’t condemned them all with her agreement. She’s not a good liar. Yet she just agreed to lie to a kingdom for a lifetime, and shoulder all the blame for her… husband’s inadequacies in peace and in the bedroom.

Will she hold? Or will she dent, and be peeled off in pieces, like the King’s helm?

…

“The Archbishop of Cantebury had the King kneel for the crowning, and now you make the king kneel and remove his helm for the price of a crown. What price will you charge for his shoes, most skilled of smiths?”

Archer slaps the hot bar of iron into water, and turns to face the man he’s currently sharing a forge with. George is more of a specialist in armor than Archer; unsurprising, as men who forge armor and yet still make time for basic nails, household tools, and horseshoes are rare beyond hearing. It draws too much attention, really, but Archer needs the regular interaction with both commoners and nobles to better ground himself in the era, and keep his finger on the pulse of noble and common feelings alike.

“The same price I always charge: cost of metal, cost of time. Should I bill _you_ for wasting both our hours, when you’ve got a helmet of your own to finish?” It comes out sullen as sulfur, rather than the cynical, matter-of-fact drawl he intended. With a growl better suited for a man his companion’s age, filled with the frustration of his teenage self, he turns back to the iron, deliberately away from his companion.

He’s forging nails, four or five a minute, and has probably created an oversupply by now, given he’s been doing it for a week, even with many interruptions each hour. But he can’t risk any more complicated work, not when he’s still reeling from a glimpse of green eyes and bright hair, and the realization that he’d been lecturing Saber for three hours straight and never once recognized her, when he’d thought it impossible for him not to see her from the smallest clue.

“You’re wasting your hours and metal enough on your own, Farran, unless we’ve got an army of cavalry to re-shoe that I haven’t heard about,” George retorts, nodding towards the finished nails lining the workbench. “Or a windstorm that’s torn off every roof in town and taken the nails with the ceiling.”

Archer barks a hoarse laugh of morbid amusement, knowing all too well that such armies are his natural prey, such windstorms the explanation for his passage on Alaya’s command. A year here, and he still hasn’t gotten used to the fact that now, instead of being the killer, he just makes the weapons for others to kill with. It’s not much of an improvement. It’s why he prefers the armor, or the household utilities such as fireside tongs and turnspit irons, or the never-ending orders for horseshoes and nails.

He still wakes up expecting to be dropped into hell and slaughter, with orders to kill blocking the rest of his mind and his own screams resounding in his head. Or worse, he dreams of failing. And all that will happen to Saber when he does.

He’s spent the first year since Saber drew the sword in public getting used to his new name (EMIYA would have drawn too much attention, as his physical appearance already does in a time and land that has no love for outsiders) and polishing his old skills of blacksmithing without illusion, thankful beyond words both for Luvia’s initial push for his lessons, and for Alaya’s willingness to awaken the Wayland Smith for a three-day teaching seminar.

The Legendary King of Blacksmiths had taught him as much about expected behavior for the master craftsman Archer had planned himself to be as he had taught lessons in the craft itself. Considering the man had forged such swords as Durandal and Gram, and quite possibly played a hand in crafting either Caliburn or Excalibur as well, Archer had been honored to meet him at first. Until he remembered precisely what the blacksmith had done to the king who had enslaved and crippled him so that his forging skills were not accessible to any other.

Wayland the Smith had known Archer did not care for him particularly, but he did not care, so long as the Wrought-Iron Heroic Spirit was an attentive pupil. And he had sympathy for a man who was a slave for Alaya, and was now being forced to bring her another when he so clearly didn’t want to.

“You’ve got to finish packing up your own forge, laddie.” Laddie? Archer may be physically twenty-seven once more, having been reverted to twenty-six at his arrival by Alaya (Apparently, to avoid being taken notice of, he was going to have to re-age throughout his mission, so She ‘rewound’ his physical clock to when he’d made the damning contract.), but it still feels odd to be addressed as such by a forty-year-old man. Then again, with this era’s mortality rate, he actually is on the verge of being middle age.

Which actually gives him a good retort to use for once.

“Then why don’t you leave me to it, _old man_?”

Even if it’s pathetic enough a taunt to be worthy of his high school years.

Still, it does work. George cuffs him good-naturedly about the shoulder, which is about as far up as the older smith can reach, and ambles off in the direction of the local tavern for an early afternoon quaff.

Archer holds himself together long enough to bank the fire appropriately. Then he sits down and lays his head in his hands.

He’d known, of course, when he accepted the mission, that he’d see her again. But he’d intended that to be a planned meeting, from the moment he set up his shop in the beginnings of Camelot and met with that newly-appointed official to license the shop appropriately.

It would go faster if he’d joined one of the guilds, but then he’d have to answer questions about his apprenticeship that he doesn’t have the means to. And he already faces enough problems as it is, from an angle he really should have anticipated before getting sent here.

Alaya’s translation protocols means he can communicate effortlessly, even if he has to research what amounts to popular culture for this era on his own. But it doesn’t alter his skin or his hair or eyes, all of which scream ‘foreigner.’ No matter that he’s in all likelihood the most skilled blacksmith in the country (and that’s a fact, not bragging, damn it), some people will just not overlook that. Guildmasters included.

The young bureaucrat with his newly-minted chain of office (left at home to avoid alerting a wary shopkeeper, but the man keeps reaching for where it should be) is also included: already prejudiced against the classes below him, doubly so once he gets a look at Archer. He’s all set to give the prospective smith a hard time.

Can one really blame Archer, after two hours of interrogation over his credentials and products, from one of the most stubborn and aggressive arguers he’d met still alive, for being fed up? He knows perfectly well, that if this man denies him access to Camelot as an honest smith, he’ll be hamstrung before he’s even begun his work, and he refuses to get any closer to Wayland’s legend, thank you very much. He’s got enough sins on his soul.

Rather than shoot the man full of holes, he silently casts Structural Analysis – and proceeds to inform the boy trying to be an adult of the age and materials of each piece of armor he’s wearing, and the weak spots at the join of neck and shoulder, as well as three areas where the chain links of the mail badly need replacing, before moving on to Kay’s dagger and sword for the same treatment, never moving anything but his eyes, standing a good three sword lengths from his increasingly irate ‘inspector.’ He’s switched the role of predator and prey, and done it in a way the kid can’t retaliate. Damn straight he’s smug.

When the sputtering youth attempts to storm out and preserve a little of his dignity, it turns out his increasingly uneasy mount requires a new shoe, or four.

Archer doesn’t appreciate how the squire gawks at the animal calming under his touch. Really, horses are much easier than any human customer for him; he makes it clear he won’t put up with nonsense, and he won’t hurt them or let them hurt themselves, and they soothe themselves. And the whole thing only takes an hour and a half, by the city bells, and he doesn’t add a surcharge for the owner being an arse! And agrees to have the weapons the man eventually ordered delivered to the palace for him, by the next day!

(At least animals don’t mind his dark skin and white hair, don’t shrink away to stare, with murmurs of ‘changeling’ or ‘outsider’ or ‘dangerous.’)

It’s a welcome relief when he packs for the trip to Cameliard, ready to see his first glimpse of Saber’s wife and the Round Table that comes with her, even if he knows there’s a risk of an unexpected meeting. Because if the license he knew he deserved didn’t come from the bigot of a bureaucrat by the time he returned to the building he could only convert so far into a forge before his savings ran out, he was going to have to swallow his trepidations and seek an audience with Arturia herself to sort it out. And that meant enough money for a few bribes, if necessary, and what better place to earn it than as one of the smiths on call at the tournament for the all-but-official betrothal?

But to turn around from getting yet another young idiot (if a polite and obedient one) out of the suit of armor that had nearly become his coffin – and see eyes as green as apple leaves staring back at him? To know that, all unknowing, her life has been in his hands for the past few hours and he’s only found out afterward? To know that he’s lectured a person so far above him, when he’s a worthless bit of scrap iron that isn’t capable of holding anyone or anything, and she’s the shining blade that lives his hollow husk of a borrowed dream as reality?

He has mastered the trick of turning his mind as well as his body to steel in the years since Luvia left him. It’s as automatic to ignore the pain of his mind and heart as it once was to ignore the pain of forging new circuits these days. Sometimes, he can even persuade himself that he isn’t capable of caring.

But when he saw her eyes growing tight, the light in them retreating, he refused to allow it. Refused to let her believe that cutting herself off from the outside, to be less than human, is acceptable. (He had to learn the hard way that the world doesn’t let you do that. You adapt to society, not the other way around.)

So he shifted his shoulders, acknowledged her position – and proceeded to charge her anyway.

And spent the rest of the week worrying about whether she’s listened to his advice about the armor.

Advice he’d barked at her…

Much the same way a stupid idiot who hadn’t bothered to get to know either individual or situation had once attempted to argue her out of fighting. Because, even then, he couldn’t stand seeing another person getting hurt on his behalf, protecting his worthless life. Despite the fact that Saber had been born to fight, knew no other way to live or communicate, and had never considered herself female except in the body she’d been born to.

(It wasn’t that she considered herself male in a girl’s body, as he suspected Mordred might have, but rather that she did not consider herself with a gender. A king is meant to be male, so she acted as a male. Her Masters had considered her a girl, so she did not argue.)

And instead of coming off as a loyal subject who could and would out-argue her brother – a feat he was certain would impress, if he could only identify Kay to make it possible – and earn a job offer to become castle blacksmith – he’d lectured her. Called her an idiot to her face. (Well, alright, to the helmet.) Manhandled her. (Into a position she should only be if strangling someone beneath her and making sure they didn’t move while she finished – gah!) Just like that idiot had, on the basis that ‘Girls shouldn’t fight.’

He groans, pushing at his eyes with the heels of his palms (thankfully, not sooty for once.) Why, _why_ , does Saber’s presence make his responses revert back to an idealistic teenager ten years younger than his current physical body? Why does she bring out all that is Emiya Shirou at his finest form, when all Archer wants is to abandon that? Will he never escape those empty, choking delusions?

He doesn’t have time for this. He has a plan to carry out, and mundane work commissions to busy himself with. He gets to his feet, and continues packing his tools into his mule’s saddle.

_“Well then. Expect more business to come your way in the future, Smith Farran. Good day.”_

And that means he needs to stop remembering those words, and that tiny, tiny grin, and that absolutely lovely flush of embarrassment over the coin purse…

 _What the hell do you even think you’re doing, idiot? Oh wait, that’s right, you’re not,_ EMIYA.

Shaking his head, wrapped in the familiar garment of self-loathing, Archer carefully packages his oversupply of nails, damps the fire, and heads for the door. He can’t fool around anymore.

One mistake, and he loses it all.

What a good thing that Eye of the Mind (True) doesn’t require luck to work.

…

“Is there a reason your face is fit for a funeral, sire?”

Arturia grits her teeth. Did he have to appear at this point? She’d finally gotten away from everyone, and was hoping to enjoy the peace and quiet. But then again, why should she be surprised?

Once, when she was younger, she followed the man’s every word, her only questions in search of clarification. She spent every hour at his lessons, learning what she needed to govern a kingdom.

Kay confronted her over it. _“When do you sleep?”_ For she only had the nights off, and she spent those patrolling her village, and caring for the animals she understood better than any two-legger. But she knew worry when she heard it, and she knew what one was supposed to do.

She smiled. _“Don’t worry, brother. I am asleep from dawn’s break until the sun rises fully.”_

Kay stared at her. _“That’s three hours. Less, in some months.”_ It was the flat tone he used when he thought someone was being deliberately obtuse.

She nodded. His time was correct.

Kay had stared a little longer, then threw up his hands in a huff, the way he did when refusing to continue arguing with someone who could not see the significance of the point he was making.

Two weeks later, he met Merlin for the first time.

He found out the magus was extending lesson time into her dreams. And that he was an incubus.

It was the first time Arturia had ever seen her brother, still a teenager at the time, seriously try to kill someone.

It took multiple attempts for Kay to explain to her that her schedule was wrong, for some reason. But what that reason was, she never quite managed to understand. Still, when it came to dealing with people, her brother was better, they both agreed, just as she was better when it came to dealing with horses. So she would accept his judgment on the matter, and ensure it would not happen to someone else. She did not mind if it happened to her, because she was not really a human.

But Guinevere was.

“And now you have a Queen all settled. You should be pleased, and making merry! It is Kay who fusses over the details, and then slacks off with women and wine! But you don’t even join in on the celebration now that you’ve gotten what you came for!” Merlin has been prattling on even without her attention, it appears. That’s not good; taking one’s attention from Merlin is never a good idea. He gets into far too much mischief while people are watching him as it is.

And right now, he has crossed a line.

“You did not see her face, Merlin.” Arturia turns to him, the green eyes flashing with rarely revealed pain, real anger underlying her usual irritation with the man. “You did not hear her words. I’ve never lived as a woman. I never considered what I was asking her to give up fully until I heard what she said.” Her lips tightened. “My mother lived for years as Queen, thought to be cursed barren for the circumstances of Uther’s marriage, her last child a bastard to be packed off to a nunnery. And now my wife will repeat her fate: living for years without giving her husband any heirs, and the world will curse her for it when the inadequacy _lies with me!_ ”

Silence falls in the echo of her words. She will hit him if he speaks a word or makes a movement now. So she turns away stares at the sunset, grip tightening on her sword.

“You sound like another young king now,” Merlin muses aloud, softly, half to himself. “Someone who knew the island’s magic was declining, and feared he would be the last King of the Land, to hold the island’s natural magical protection and tie it to his own well-being. Someone who would do anything for an heir who could keep that protection alive.”

“I do not want to hear about my father right now, Merlin.” Curse it, everyone’s been telling the King all day that it’s his betrothal feast and he should enjoy it. Well, Arturia intends to act on that. “I want to be left alone, Magus. Give me an hour for myself, and then come back if it’s urgent.”

“Now, why would I do that, my King? If the night off is what you need, it’s what you need. I can pester you for the tale of the helmet in the morning. Besides, I have other work planned.”

“I forbid you to harass the blacksmith, Merlin.” It is an automatic order. She knows her meddling advisor all too well, and does not wish to harry someone whose personal respect she oddly wishes to earn.

“Really, sire, I have enough business of my own to prepare for. I’ll see you at the wedding, but I must prepare my gift for now.”

“Gift? What are you…” She swivels, alarm bells pealing in her mind.

Too late. He’s gone.

But she knows that thoughtful tone.

King Arthur’s eyes narrow, the draconic heritage slitting her pupils.

It always presages trouble.

“What are you planning now, old man?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uther and Igraine: I started out working from the original Arthurian mythos on the circumstances of Arthur’s conception and birth on this, before my kind reviewer Leaf Silicon, on ff.net, alerted me to the recently published and partially translated Garden of Avalon.
> 
> Written by Kinoko Nasu himself, and released as part of the supplementary materials with the UBW DVD pack, it contains some short stories from the knights’ perspectives. Sections are translated and available on Beast’s Lair. I borrow from Kay’s section especially, quoting his portion in the final part of the story. (Some of the implications are chilling in their connection back to general Nasuverse. Remember the impossible-to-spell spear that deals Mordred the death-wound? Looks like that’s not all it does. A bit of a connection there linked to Angel Notes concepts, possibly, from what I’ve understood.)
> 
> For those who don’t know the original myth, Uther spots Igraine with her husband Gorlois at a council of lords, and decides he’d like to sleep with her. Igraine refuses his advances, and alerts her husband. Gorlois responds by spiriting his household from the court under cover of darkness without asking the King’s leave, giving Uther an excuse to declare war. Igraine is left in safety during the siege, only to receive an unexpected conjugal visit from her husband. A day later, she finds out Gorlois was already dead at the time. It was Uther, disguised by Merlin’s magic – making Arthur’s conception a rape by deception, which will later parallel Mordred’s conception.
> 
> Fate hasn’t had many details before Arthur’s birth, so I was mostly basing myself on that (Garden of Avalon appears to be a bit more clinical in events, and all of it done with the aim of creating the perfect heir). But if Uther could pull stunts like that – maybe the worries about Arturia not being human, and her problems with the inhuman actions she takes, stem not from her reign, but her father’s. Archer’s got a lot more to do than he realizes…
> 
> Wayland the Smith: Wayland is part of a gruesome vengeance legend. His skills as a master smith beyond compare come to the ears of a king, who decides that he wants the master smith to work exclusively for him. Wayland is captured and hamstrung so he cannot run away. For years, he is forced to forge armor, weapons, and jewelry beyond compare for the king. Wayland spends that time gaining the trust of the king's children and devising a means of escape. Then, after years of imprisonment, he strikes. He kills the kings' two boy sons, fashioning their skulls into drinking cups for the king, their eyes into jeweled brooches for the queen, and their teeth into a necklace for their sister the princess. Next, he rapes and impregnates the princess, possibly drugging her first. Finally, having build a magical/mechanical set of wings for an escape by flight, he taunts the King with full knowledge of his vengeance, cruelly gloating, before flying to freedom.
> 
> Foreigners: Britain was a divided country, with great numbers of foreign invaders, often Saxons, but sometimes simply from different parts of the isle as well. As you may guess, this leads to foreigners being distrusted. Archer’s unusual height for a peasant, mixed with his non-standard coloring and Asian features, make him look distinctly odd to Britons. And we all know how people fear those who are different than themselves. It is also one of the few problems I thought Archer might honestly not anticipate, coming from the world and time of globalization.
> 
> Guilds: In the absence of college and G.E.D. certificates, master-apprenticeship relationships taught trade to a standard level, and guilds of a single craft set the standards and the prices. A lone craftsman without a guild to back him up is at a severe disadvantage in such a culture.
> 
> Gwen’s Role and Queen’s Problems: Anyone who has read about Henry VIII and his six wives knows exactly how big a crisis of succession could come, particularly in the generation after a civil war settling just such a crisis. Guinevere is now knowingly condemning herself to the same eventual fate that Katharine of Aragon would face historically, blamed for failing to ensure the stability of the kingdom after her husband’s death. It is an avenue for much depression, opening the door to a failing relationship before the wedding even happens.  
> Of course, knowing Merlin’s most infamous prank… that may not be an issue for long.


	4. III: Easter and Wedding Preparations.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding preparations going mad. A shop struggling to stay in business, A commoner craftsman and a King still deciding on the fit of the crown find an odd camaraderie.
> 
> And a wedding guest enters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much criticism on my prologue, I have somewhat reformatted it so as not to overwhelm you guys with the starting infodump. Instead, you get to receive a little bit of it at the beginning of each chapter, until it’s finished. Not sure the fic will be finished by then, so those who have seen my headcanon rant in whole, don’t look at its winding down as an indication that the fic is likewise winding down.
> 
> For those looking for Garden of Avalon on Beast’s Lair, search the Anime/Manga/Merchandise/Doujin section for the thread. And I only started reading that midway through writing the previous chapter, people, so please be kind.
> 
> For those who criticize my understanding of Nasuverse mechanics, I will freely admit to failing on much of that, simply because I am not a fanatic fan and have not read as much. I’m trying to be accurate, but I’m also balancing with the original mythos I happen to know better, and I hope that the quality of my fic will not be judged on the quality of my limited knowledge of the resources. I write this fic with the dual intentions of exploring the characters I enjoy, and to discuss some very controversial subjects in the open, exploring the consequences of choice given and choice denied, with and without full information. 
> 
> I will also freely admit to being much stronger on the original Arthurian mythos, and I intend to use and refer to it often.
> 
> In addition to the sources already mentioned, I admit to much inspiration from Heather Dale’s music inspired by the Arthurian cycle. Highly recommended.
> 
> Also, I will be starting a summer class in a couple weeks, and taking a trip with my folks before that. That means that this chapter and possibly the one following it will be the last for a while. Enjoy. This is the last chapter before the story earns its rating.

_**Is it any wonder that the English accused Jeanne D'Arc of witchcraft? She made no bargain, but was indeed empowered by the Counter Force, which she understood and interpreted as the voice of God. But acts of a merciful God to one side are acts of the enemy and the Devil himself to the opponent, as their wishes are dashed, forcefully miscarried so the conflicting wish may be birthed into reality.** _

**_Such souls are known as the Counter Guardians, the Beasts of Alaya._ **

**_…We've gotten off topic._ **

**\- From the thesis notes of an unidentified Clock Tower student**

…

_Easter, 527 A.D._

With a last flourish of her quill, ARTORIUS REX is finished. The addition of her witness' signatures and their seals besides hers finish the third copy of the document for the records.

Londinium remains the Capitol, but Camelot is now the King's official seat, in war and peace, and thus the first target for any warlike actions.

Arturia still can't believe she's signing this at the Round Table. It is, without a doubt, the most impressive wedding present her father-in-law could have offered her. No seat higher than the other, so no arguments of preference can be made on that score; she will only need to be careful not to place enemies within arm's length of each other. Equidistant seating allows every man to hear each voice and see each face. It is a table fit for drinking mead or planning war alike, and truly a potent weapon in her diplomatic arsenal.

Yes, the Round Table solves a great many problems before she even realized them.

Even if it's created more than a few during the transportation.

First, there's the weight. Even taken apart, a table so large is disgustingly heavy. Though they began the transport before the ground had thawed, the carts still stuck in the ruts, and in one case broke an axle. Road repair, now that winter is over and peace somewhat restored, is her next project. Or it will be, when the wedding budget is complete.

Secondly, there's the size. Somehow, when King Leodegrance mentioned it was meant to seat one hundred and fifty knights, she didn't consider the sheer diameter that a round table, as opposed to several rectangular ones, would require. When the joiners and carpenters refused to begin assembly until she directed them to a large enough hall to hold the entire table, Arturia began to worry she would have to build a new room for the gift.

Fortunately, Merlin solves the issue with an unexpected wing on the second floor. _"No, Arturia, I did not make this room appear by magic. I simply got rid of the magic keeping it hidden! It is perfectly sound construction, and all built by mundane craftsmen, I assure you!"_ He disappears again promptly afterwards, back to whatever his own 'wedding gift' is, so she's still worried, but there's enough to keep her busy without that.

Be that as it may, the table construction has finished in time for the Easter Mass, allowing the carpenters to return to overall city construction and repairs. Which allows the King to sit at the Round Table as long as she pleases, signing documents and studying records, and attempting to get her kingdom in some sort of order. And if she pauses every now and then to stroke the table that will host her knights, then who will gainsay the King?

Several people, as it turns out.

There are fifty days between Easter and Pentecost. Two weeks past Easter means thirty-six days left, and it's thirty too many for Arturia. She's managed two letters to Guinevere over the past month, both of them carefully worded in pleasantries with bits of news scattered in between the formalities – very cold, compared to what was before. She only hopes she can recapture their friendship better once her bride arrives in person.

More than that…

"Two hundred and forty _at least…?!_ "

Two hundred and forty, Ector informs them, is the minimum number of noble wedding guests they should expect and prepare for, including minor kings, lords, and their wives and important retainers, with a few heirs appearing as their fathers' representatives, as well as their minimum entourage of knight escorts. In all likelihood, the number will be closer to four hundred total. And that is only the noble guests with invitations.

"Where am I supposed to put them all to _sleep_?"

Kay has a right to grumble, Arturia thinks, but only on the scale of the operation. Over the last year, her brother has regularly practiced drawing up camps for both war and peace talks, and this operates on a similar principle. Once one remembers you can't put enemies next to each other, and nobles will be slighted if you place them neighboring to common soldiers, it's simply a matter of remembering your history. Right?

"How am I to feed them?! Entertain them?! Do we even have enough wine?"

True, lords do get cross if they run out of drink. Probably because most of them like to talk so much, and it dries their throats. And a week's worth of wine for them all is likely to consume the entirety of the castle's current stock. Arturia's not even sure _why_ her wedding has to last for a week. Most of the time, the answer boils down to, 'You're the King.' That's not much of an answer in this case.

"These celebrations last for a week! We haven't even finished screening the permanent castle staff! Arthur, you're damn lucky that we have the money for this from the battle loot, you hear?!"

Yes, Kay. She's aware that the country as a whole has been on the verge of bankruptcy for months. Ironically, it's the greed of the lords and minor kings for their various territories' welfare that has preserved it as long as it has.

"I am going to be scrimping for _months_ to pay for the costs of this, you… Hey!"

That's it. She can't stand any more yelling at her for things she hasn't done. She bolts.

"Get back here, KING ARTHUR!"

Kay always wins arguments. The only way to win against him is to not be there in the first place.

Sprinting around another corner, she plows straight into a familiar, creaky man.

"Easy," her foster-father gasps, even as the door swings shut behind them. Arturia realizes that he was coming out of the room he's claimed as a study, and she's pushed him straight back in. Hopefully, Kay didn't see.

She mouths an apology, unwilling to tempt the fates.

"And just where are you running to, my liege?" Sir Ector's voice is quiet, with a slight note of teasing that she has no time to indulge.

"Hiding from my book-keeper, Sir Ector. The very angry book-keeper that I appointed at _your_ suggestion." If anyone can halt Kay and allow her to escape, it's his father.

"Running from responsibilities?" It may be another attempt at teasing. She's not always good at picking up on that sort of thing.

"YOU CAN'T HIDE FOREVER!"

Arturia levels her flattest stare at him. "If you can work with that bellowing, be my guest. I refuse to listen to his hysterical rants for a moment longer. Help me, I beg you?"

Ector stares at her in amusement that he makes no attempt to hide. She grits her teeth. This is no time for him to play the adoring, nostalgic, father, curse it!

"You may be the King, but you're not allowed to run from your steward who balances the books for you!" Kay bellows. He's getting closer.

"My lord – _Father_ – please! Anything, but I must get out of the castle for a bit!" The King should not avoid her duty. But it is quite clear Arturia will not get a bit of work done now, and she refuses to resort to either ignoring her brother to his face or hiding under the bed like a child.

Hiding behind her foster-father's knee isn't much better, but at this point, he's the only man she knows in the castle who can stop Kay in full rant mode.

Ector pauses for a moment. Then the wrinkles stretch into a smile, the one that promises a solution. "Anything? Well, if you don't mind running errands…"

" _IS THIS THE THANKS I GET FOR SORTING THE MESS YOU CALL THE TAX RECORDS?!_ " Kay's feet are stomping closer. He sounds like he's about to have an apoplexy.

"You have your sword and scabbard, and your purse is tucked away from thieving hands. Off you go, my King; I'll distract Kay and help him solve the sleeping arrangements." Sir Ector gives her a merry wink, tugs the brown hood of a page's cloak over her head, and passes her an address. "I believe you have a list of cookware to order for us. Don't forget the kitchen turnspit."

And with that, he pushes her off down the servants' passage, stepping forward to intercept his son. "Now, Kay, let's see what you've got so far. Two heads are better than one, after all. I won't presume to do your job for you, but perhaps I can assist with the logistics."

As she slips through the back hallways and down to the main streets of the town, Arturia mentally promises to bring her longtime guardian an extra special present for this dual blessing – distracting Kay, and giving her an excuse to visit the shop she's been so keen to see.

The list of blacksmiths' wares that the castle requires for the wedding is in her pocket.

_"Well then. Expect more business to come your way in the future, Smith Farran. Good day."_

Time she kept her promise to him.

…

After no customer has come by to actually request his services within three hours of the noon bell, Archer banks the fire temporarily. He's finished the tongs and poker he was working on, he can straighten bent nails still cold, and he cannot afford to waste his fuel supply. Not until he is very certain how much he has left to spend on it.

Instead of continuing hammering as he would prefer, Archer digs out a small 'book,' sewn together from the scraps of parchment left over from his drafting and measurements, and pulls a piece of charcoal free to serve as a pencil. He needs to get these accounts done while it's still light, if there isn't a customer to busy him. And there have only been three this week, despite the increased bustle for both Easter and the six-weeks-away royal wedding.

The incident with the accidental royal de-helming served as enough proof of his skill to get the license for his forge processed before he returned. Alright, he may have pushed for that by agreeing with Saber – Arturia – _Arthur_ , he has to remember that it's King Arthur – that he had a shop in Camelot, while staring at the familiar bureaucrat who'd escorted her there. But he needs to work if he wants to eat! And thanks to Alaya's… 'mission adjustments'… eating is a necessity, not a luxury or a pleasure.

But actually finishing the forge itself, even when he did most of the work and only paid for the supplies and tools needed to finish and stock the building, still used up the majority of his savings. That had been fine, at the time; with first Easter and then a royal wedding coming up, the influx of visitors would guarantee every blacksmith in town could make ends meet on simply horseshoes for all the mounts and mules.

Except… that prediction? It's true for every blacksmith in town, except for him. While they sell their craft and made new wares, dust gathers on his swords and armor and fireplace tools – even on his horseshoes and nails, the most often needed products of any blacksmith's making.

The helmet story is _still_ making the rounds of the city – and probably of the kingdom, at this point, with his Luck. Archer wishes he could say the same of his business profits. But at this point…

No, he's never been one for denying it. Not when he's redone his sums three times to be sure.

The only way for business to naturally be this low, for someone who's _proven_ the quality of his work, is active discouragement.

Much of it is likely from the guilds, which don't approve of a loner striking out on his own, and for good reason. But a good deal more of it…

Archer's longtime yearning to kill his past self has translated into a great deal of distaste for his former appearance, among other things. But right now, he has to admit that if Alaya had de-aged him even just a little further, and given him his original coloring in the bargain, it would probably make things much easier on him right now.

Red hair might bring accusations of Highlander ancestry, but at least it wouldn't bring accusations of 'changeling.' You'd think he'd be clear of that, at least, with all the cold iron he handles daily. Instead, they seem to have decided he may be a fairy smith. Pale skin offers familiarity, while bronze instantly creates suspicions of a foreign spy. Very little he can do to prove that untrue – he's a foreigner to both country and era, here, and he _is_ spying on quite a few people.

And now the 'tale of the helmet' has given him a reputation of someone who will lecture the King, if unknowingly. Probably turning off noble customers who prefer their commoners to be properly subservient.

Shaking his head, Archer turns back to his calculations. He's running low on both fuel and money to buy more. Without fuel, he can't run a forge. And without his forge, he has no way to work.

Glancing over to the Workbench of finished products, he counts ten ax heads, all ready to be fitted with an appropriate wooden handle for cutting trees. He can trade two of them as part of his next charcoal payment, rather than money, but after that, the woodcutters won't accept any more, since they'll have no use for them. Ax heads are made to last, and be re-sharpened, for a long time.

He glances again to his remaining supplies of metal. He cannot pay for any more without having sold something for actual money, not if he wants to remain secure. Normally, a smith in his situation would rent the forge out for a few hours, as the Cameliard tournament rented George's smithy to the visiting smiths during the tournament. But if he's considered this cursed already, he won't get a single offer except maybe a few offers to outright buy the place away from him. He has enough to keep him in food for the wedding, but if he hasn't sold something by then or gotten a new commission…

No. He won't think that far yet. If he turns poacher, he'll have to give up everything here. A blacksmith has to be at his forge, or he'll miss the work he needs. And a forge needs to stay heated during the day, for hours, or it will be useless when it's needed.

And he cannot afford to ask Alaya for help. He needs to stay unnoticed, as impossible as that appears to have turned out. If he's not going out of business when all the signs point to it…

He really, really doesn't want to face a witch-hunt, or robbery accusation.

"So much for actually winning for once, huh?" The numbers won't change no matter how much he glares. He drops the charcoal back into the spare fuel and tucks the little book away under his apron.

Of all the enemies he anticipated, hunger and fatigue included, he never expected racial prejudice, somehow. Sure, there was the experience with the Association, but that was because he was from backwater Japan and had no clear talent, and later for his heretical practices of magecraft. And he's used to being feared for his actions, where no one could understand his motives.

This is something completely different.

Just as he's about to start rationing his food costs for the next few weeks, he hears the door latch lift.

Too early for the supper break for the workers. A noble customer, or an ordinary traveler? Or is this harassment from the guilds again?

Archer doesn't quite spring to his feet – it never does to look _too_ eager for anything, and his height is always intimidating even if people are willing to let the rest of his looks be.

"Is this the forge of Smith Farran?"

That voice.

He knows who he's going to see, this time, before he turns.

He'll never be ready.

But the world doesn't wait for anyone, least of all him.

"Yes, it is."

Proper respect, this time. He turns away from his stool, and half-kneels, half-bows. (He can't even remember when his reflex for a bow switched from the Japanese male's waist-bend, hands at sides, to a European spine-tilt, hand over heart.)

"Your Majesty." And then he waits, for her to address him further. He is the social inferior, and has been daring enough already.

"Good morrow, Goodman Farran."

He should really wait for her to say more, say what she's come here for. But he's going to have to dare things once more, it seems. He can't let her glance about his failure of a shop, with too many goods unsold. And besides, he owes her this.

"You have my deepest apologies for the disrespect of our last meeting, Your Majesty." He still can't believe he didn't manage to recognize her underneath it, dented helm and slipped padding or not. Delivering a badly-needed lecture on armor maintenance to a couple of overconfident or overly-trusting young knights was one thing, but he had never had the right to question _her_. Not when so many had done just that, and destroyed her self-confidence until she was nearly as much a broken shell as he.

He's about to continue, fully aware that he's stumbling over the form of apology, when –

"Don't apologize, Goodman Farran. We both know I needed it, and a crown on my head does not change that fact, whether you knew of it or not. And it's not as if you could have known who I was."

Archer blinks. "Needed what?" As far as he's aware, all he gave her was the change owed – he'd had just enough from the rest of the day's earnings to cover the change for the five-shillings-worth of a crown – and the advice – which he knew wasn't something he should have pushed upon her, so he didn't figure it into his price, and had, in fact, told her it was free. He realizes he's lifted his head, in a definite breach of good manners from common craftsman to aristocracy.

But she's chuckling. It's a small chuckle, but her laugh is so rare that he's forgotten the sound of it. It's warm, the rumble of a dragon hatchling underscoring the human voice. It's probably because of the bewilderment on his face, he's aware he looks an utter bumpkin of an idiot next to her no matter what, but he can't say he minds looking the fool when it proves she still knows how to smile spontaneously.

"The lecture on my armor, I suppose," she says, waving off his kneeling. "It is not often that I am spoken to in such a way. I found the experience… refreshing, in all honesty, good smith."

He can't help but raise an eyebrow at that. "Is this a prelude to putting me in the stocks?" He doesn't think that she'd do such a thing _now_ , so long after the helmet removal happened, but maybe one of the guilds has gotten tired of his stubborn refusal to budge and is sending a court charge in. Or perhaps she's realized she needed to confirm her image as a stern king after all, which he can't blame her for, even if it will almost certainly condemn the remainder of his business.

But she ought to be wearing kingly robes of state, or at least her armor, for that sort of official business, and not what he's fairly certain is a borrowed page's cloak. It vaguely puts him in mind of a long ago yellow raincoat thrown over armor.

Arturia blinks. "Have you done anything to require such?"

"Most noblemen would consider it enough to justify at least threatening such, my lord King, if I called them an idiot." He might understand her not realizing that if her Round Table were established in full at this point, and the Code of Chivalry known by every child in the land, but surely she can't think that most lords are that honorable and good-tempered at this point? He got away with it during the tournament only if they'd just risked brain injury and he pounded that fact into them while prying them out of their helmets. (It was definitely one job he'd never expected, but he'd found himself to have a knack for it.)

She stares at him, uncomprehending.

Does she need more examples? He considers.

"Or a prat." They like that one even less. He learned it with Luvia, gleefully chanting English insults they only half understood, as they outran angry professors at the Clock Tower when an experiment or tiff blew up on them again.

"Or if I tell them they're careless with their horse." No nobleman likes his riding skills insulted, even if Archer is generally just discussing the horse's hooves in the case of that particular criticism.

"Though they might just tell me to give the advice to their squire, if I was lucky." His tongue got him into _far_ too much trouble here before he realized his skin made people actively seek excuses for a brawl with him.

"Even if you're right?" Concern he doesn't deserve is in her tone.

He can't cut off his snort to that. "And admit they might be wrong? With all due respect, my lord King, most noblemen don't apologize to a common craftsman, Master level or no, right or wrong." Getting to his feet, he completes his thought, bitter even for him: "And even if they did, they still wouldn't apologize to me."

"Why not to you?"

Oh, hell. He didn't mean to say that last bit aloud.

He has to answer, now. But how on earth is he supposed to explain racial prejudice to a King who designed the Knights of the Round Table, an order which may be the closest thing to an element of meritocracy in her feudal society? Arturia might comprehend class difference, at least in theory, but racism is a different kettle of fish.

He opens his mouth, searching for the words.

The outer door banging startles them both. Arturia pulls her hood back up, letting it hang in her face. Archer tenses, touching the bracelet under his shirt, hands all too ready to grasp for a sword.

"Oi, Ferran! Where's the fire-tongs and poker I ordered?"

Archer grimaces. "Right here, Alan, as soon as you pay." There's no way he can shoo her out the door now. Alan's one of the few people who's foolishly brave enough to be rude to Archer's face and still do business with him, usually attempting to lower the agreed upon price when delivery happens.

Sure enough, Alan drops a sixpence on the board, before reaching out his hands for the tools.

Unfortunately, Archer isn't in the mood to play around. "We agreed on a double groat, Alan. Eight pence, not six."

"This is apprentice level work!"

"Yes, but it's me who's doing the work. So I have to charge it for my rates. We agreed on this before I started."

"It's worth three." Alan steps closer, a laughable attempt at intimidation to someone who's faced heroes and monsters head on for most of his existence, even if he can't remember all of it. "It's worth _three_. Or do you only accept payment in crowns now? Five-shilling smith?"

This is why Emiya Shirou couldn't deal with trouble like Shinji. Cowardly bullies like this always have a sense for how much they can get away with, and use the public eye as blackmail to prevent retaliation.

"I work for the price we both agreed upon, with your neighbor Tom the Cooper as our witness." Archer didn't want to pull that card, but past business endeavors with Alan made it a necessary prudence. Even if there's a good chance that Tom would take Alan's side over his, if his fear of the fae began to outweigh his fundamental honesty. "I assure you, it's worth the cost. If you wanted apprentice work, you should have gone to a smith who had one, and asked the apprentice to do it."

Alan spits to one side, but grudgingly slaps another two pennies on the table. Archer makes quick use of a silent Structural Analysis to ensure they're actually silver, then places the tools in Alan's hand.

"Taffy." Alan mutters the slur under his breath as he exits. Archer's ears, superior to any human's, catch it easily.

Then he's gone, blown out like a breath of foul wind. Though Archer knows he needs the money, he is keenly aware of what Arturia has seen, and heard. He has no pride as one of Alaya's Cleaners, yet he cannot bring himself to pick up the coins from the table and count them. Not while she is there.

"He's underpaying you. Your work is worth more than that."

Archer agrees with that statement more than he can ever tell her. However…

"It's the price we agreed on for the work, and it's on time. Payment is payment, and I'm not precisely in a position to haggle."

Saber looks at the shop again, her eyes lingering on the stock of various goods, neatly piled by the workbench. "Why are you making so much more than you're selling? This is fine quality. Even – may I?" He nods, and she picks up one of the cheaper swords he offers. "Even this is much better than I'd expect at most blacksmith's. You ought to be selling faster, and at a higher price. But you're producing this much, and you haven't got a single apprentice to help you."

What can he say? He tells her a part of the truth. "Business has been slower than I expected these last few weeks. Apparently the other blacksmiths are receiving all the customers." Will she put that together with the 'Taffy?'

When she stiffens, he knows she's put it together with _something_. He isn't sure if it's the correct conclusion. This isn't his Saber. It's the girl she was before she learned that people don't always live up to ideals.

He isn't going to let her linger on it. His pride has been bruised enough already. He can't bear to loose her respect, as well.

"Is there a reason in particular you came here today, Your Majesty? Something I can do for you?"

"Ah – yes." Stepping to the table, she removes a list from her pocket. "The castle is in need of a number of supplies, particularly the kitchen. Do you make cookware as well?

Cookware? That will take a lot of his remaining stock of metal. "What sort of cookware, sire?"

She names a number of items, the largest of which is an iron turnspit fit to roast a boar. He notes the details in his head, checking for clarification on the size of some of the pots, and calculates.

He has just enough metal for this left in his stock to cover this.

"Yes, I can do this. How soon do you want it done?"

"How soon can you _have_ it done?"

Ooh. She knows how to haggle. He finds himself grinning in anticipation.

"A turnspit of that size? Three days. The rest? Another week, maybe. How much are you willing to pay?"

There's the base cost of the metal, then the cost of his time, which is the cost of the metal over again for a project like this.

"Would you prefer money, or goods?"

He blinks, then chuckles. "Wedding budgeting?"

She scowls. "Kay – my brother, the one who brought me to you when my helmet dented – won't quit worrying about it. I actually came down to get a little peace and quiet."

Now he does raise his eyebrows. "In a forge? I thought the only place noisier was a battlefield, my lord King. But then, you'd know that better than me. What goods were you thinking of?"

Arturia shrugs, uncertain. "I believe that Kay will attempt to turn my office upside down if I give away any of the food supplies while he is still working with the cooks on planning the meals for the wedding week. But cloth, candles, and food that will not last till the wedding… and charcoal for your forge. And money, of course. Whatever form you prefer, we can supply half of your fee up front."

Archer frowns. "Next time you haggle, don't be so eager. You'll get cheated that way." He considers her offer. "Three days' worth of charcoal, and two shillings and sixpence for the turnspit and the rest of the cookware." It's a bit high, but the sheer volume of cookware listed makes the price acceptable. Plus, he's leaving room to haggle.

"Reasonable. Done."

"Not planning to haggle?" He's almost disappointed.

"I trust you to set a fair price."

And then she goes and says things like that and pulls the floor out from under him, after what she saw earlier. His eyes widen, and once more he's reminded of the star's radiance that first night, a time and place so impossibly far behind and yet too close for any measurement to be certain of accuracy.

"That man was asking for an apprentice worker's price. You make everything in here yourself, don't you?"

Ah. He wondered when she was going to notice that. Most shops would also include the apprentices' goods, priced appropriately for their lower quality to the master's work. But he has no such range of price, and no such helpers.

He nods. "I did, Your Majesty." It's a shade curter than he intended, possibly, but he never wastes words these days unless he needs a distraction. Besides, he's curious to see where she's going with this.

"You were right when you said a forge isn't quiet. Why don't you ask for help? I'm sure you could make use of a couple apprentices."

Yes, and then he'd have to keep them fed and boarded, after the initial apprenticeship fee and actually getting someone interested in apprenticing to him in the first place. And someone else he has to hide from, in the one sanctuary he has left that wasn't his own mind.

It's at times like this that Archer is reminded of how impossibly suited this golden-haired child-woman is to the role of kingship, to the point of fatal overspecialization. Her word choice was subtle, and yet very much to the point – there will be no dancing around this answer, for she's left him no room to do so. Typical Saber.

"I'm used to being alone, my lord king." His smile is grim. "Have been for years. Think a part of me prefers it, by now." You know you're broken when the absence of people is a relief because a lack of people means you don't have to kill anyone. "I tend to be… off-putting, at the best of times, and I'd rather not force my presence on others."

Her eyes penetrate him. "Have you ever not been alone? You didn't spring from the ground."

How can he answer that?

"When I was a boy," he says at last, "there was a great fire. No one knew what started it. If anyone did know, they must have perished in the blaze. One man, looking for survivors, found me wandering the ruins, barely alive. He took me in as his own son, and raised me as such.

"On his deathbed, he talked of dreams he'd been unable to fulfill. Barely comprehending what they were, I promised to do so in his stead."

It still strikes him how arrogant he was then – to assume he could do what his father, the strongest man he knew, could not. But then, that is the key to children. They do not know the word 'impossible.' If someone tells them 'You can't,' it just makes them all the more determined to prove that person wrong.

"I put that promise above everything else, everyone else, including myself. I had a few friends, and even family, but I neglected them to pursue the promise."

A normal person would have noticed his friends leaving him. Emiya Shirou had barely noticed their presence to begin with. Depressed at the mounting levels of his failure, at the blood that would not remove itself from his hands, his archery-trained eyes focused on his target to the exclusion of all else, he did not connect the absence of his adoptive family with the absence of the happiness they had brought. It had taken Luvia's very official final break up with him to connect the dots. But by then, it was too late.

"In the end, it broke everyone around me. And then it broke me a little more."

The problem with making swords out of illusion is that they disappear at will. That means there is no need to maintain them, to fix them, to keep them in good order. And so Emiya Shirou never learned to do so for himself, nor to let others care for him as they should.

"I only realized what I had become when it was all too late. And it took a further while after that to realize that my goal was impossible from the start. What I had sought, did not exist in the form I had imagined. Rather, I had already had the closest thing to it by my side, and let it go without ever noticing it."

If this were his Saber, or any Saber of any war, and they were drinking together, perhaps he might be able to go on. Try to give her the tools to save herself from her pact. Before he knew the extent of Alaya's machinations – and who is to say there aren't more that he doesn't know about?

But no matter how much she looks like his Saber, this isn't her. This is Arturia, this is King Arthur, this is the person she was, the identity Saber set aside in order to be what she thought her country needed. This is Saber before she broke herself through the combined tragedies of a nation of humans failing to be logical and ideal as the leader they had demanded and grown to fear, before the Fourth Grail War partnered her with Kiritsugu and ended in a betrayal neither had anticipated, before a cornered boy summoned her with a refusal to sell his life cheaply and a stolen scabbard he did not know he housed.

And because she is not his Saber…

"And that is as much as I am willing to linger on it without a direct order, a great deal more trust, or a strong drink. Preferably all three." He gives her a tiny grin. "Whether or not it's the King who's asking."

Who knows how long he can keep walking this line, when his boss is quite capable of pulling the answers from his thoughts if She grows suspicious?

Even if it is partly his goal to help her save herself – he cannot keep talking with her. Not now, not like this. Not with Luvia overlaying his mind, not when he swore when he woke from a dream of green eyes to a cold bed and a half-empty closet and apartment that he would never again knowingly look on another woman and allow himself to see someone other than the one he was with.

"Was there anything else you needed, my lord king? Or shall I get started on that order for the castle?" It's cold. It's hurtful. He knows it. But it's all he can get past the lump in his own throat.

She bites her lip, then shakes her head. She's caught the hint, immune to social niceties though she might be. "No, that will be all. Good afternoon, Smith Farran."

The battle instinct that has served him so well inside and outside of combat in death if not in life screams notice at him – if she walks away on that note, all that has happened until now will be for naught. A desire to hear her voice continue speaking, in _anything_ but that finality, almost pushes words he has not planned to tumble off his tongue of lead.

But she speaks first. She speaks first, and saves them both.

…

Arturia has felt increasingly guilty as the conversation continues. She invaded the man's space to thank him, and his first thought was an unnecessary apology, followed by a belief that she'd come to see him put in the stocks. Oh, he joked about it, but there was a definite suggestion that he wouldn't be surprised if it was true.

He was so surprised when she apologized instead. Does he really have such low expectations of treatment he will receive from others? Apparently so, if the customer who appeared is any indication. The very fact that Farran had to ensure the man was paying in full and yet never threatened to alert the guard sends warnings to her mind.

_"With all due respect, my lord King, most noblemen don't apologize to a common craftsman, Master level or no, right or wrong. And even if they did, they still wouldn't apologize to me."_

If Alan's behavior is anything to go by, that doesn't just apply to nobles' behavior. But what circumstances would make society shun the blacksmith? He's gruff, but he isn't impolite, and despite his powerful build, he has yet to make use of an ounce of physical intimidation.

_"Or do you only accept payment in crowns now? Five-shilling smith?"_

Is this her fault, then? Has the ridicule for her 'de-crowning' fallen hard on the smith?

It's while they're haggling over the commission – or rather haggling over the form of payment – that she realizes the truth in his earlier words. A smithy should be louder than this. There should be apprentices, a family. It was one thing at Cameliard, when Farran had traveled, but why is he alone here? She knows she's pushing too much, too far, but she can't stop now, even when she's sure she's asked too much.

The tale he regards her with is one that she could never have imagined. It sounds like something out of a ballad. It should summon pity. But she cannot dare disrespect him with it.

So she offers the only thing she can think of to repay the debt of half-given trust.

"I am sorry, Smith Farran. I am not one to enjoy other's pain, and I should not have pried."

He blinks, then snorts. "You have a bad habit of apologizing to people who don't deserve it, I see."

Does he honestly not see how deserving of one he is? Has the world failed him so badly?

This is what I need to fix, as King, she tells herself. How many others have been failed like him?

King. That's right, she's a King, and she needs to act as one.

"You do deserve it, Smith Farran. Because… your struggle is mine, in many ways."

"The people's burdens are the king's to shoulder, yes, I know, you needn't tell me." There's a mockery in his tone she's never heard before, only half directed at her. It's jagged, meant to wound and then to tear.

She dislikes it. Strongly so. He's being deliberately oblivious now, and she will not allow him to hide his wit and play at wearing motley.

"I grew up knowing who my father was, even raised apart from my family," she finds herself saying. "I knew Britain was under siege from within and without, falling into ruin without the known security of a known male heir in existence." And even now she can only be the heir in truth, but must act the male in order to do so. She's a liar to save her country, but if it's only her honor that's infringed on, it's all right. The King will sacrifice anything for the country. "When he died, I was still five years away from being able to make grown men take me seriously. I spent those years terrified that the country would crumble before I was strong enough to help it."

She still has nightmares of what the Saxons will do if she fails. What the Romans will do. What the feuding kings have already done with their years of power plays.

"Sometimes I spent my sleep in the stalls next to the horses, rather than my own bed. If I cried in my sleep for the nightmares of my failure, they could not judge me for it."

She's never told Kay or Guinevere that she cried, of course. And she doesn't cry anymore. The King isn't human. Only humans cry.

"When I pulled that sword out of the stone, I knew I would be surrendering any hope of ever doing that again. Crying, or escaping the court for the horses' company. But I couldn't do anything else."

Finally, she knows the words she's been searching for.

"You had a dream, and I have a responsibility. Both are crushing, yet we take them on anyway."

She is not human. She will not be crushed, the way he was. But, just to be safe, she will find what his mistakes were, and then she will know what to avoid.

Now, to ensure he stays around for it.

"Other people's opinions can and should be taken into account, but a King makes his judgment on his own. I know you are a good man, Archer Farran the smith. And an honest one, a quality I see in precious few these days."

And now, she must ask one more favor, and hope he does not turn her down.

"I would… appreciate speaking more with you in the future, if you would not disdain my company. You answer questions honestly when asked, and too many people, including my foster father, find my authority a barrier to that, these days.

"May I return and visit, Smith Farran?"

Her voice is steel. There is no alternative. She will be victorious in this.

And Archer Farran clearly knows that.

There's a small cough, as the smith leans back against his workbench. Once more, he reminds her of that awkward yearling, uncertain where to put his hands or feet. He's as confused as her about this whole business, it seems.

"If… If your brother is making too much noise again, you are welcome to visit my quieter forge while I make the order. Come at any time, sire. I do not care much for company, as it does not care for me – but I do not mind someone who is polite and quiet. Nor do I mind if he asks questions, as long as he understands I don't always have the answers, or necessarily the answers right for him."

He pauses, and she thinks he has surprised them both with his easy acceptance.

"I… thank you, Smith Farran. I will take you up on that."

And then she's off back to her castle and crown, and he's back to his smoke and flame and iron.

But, if one looks past the shadow of the hood, past the shadows of the forge…

There's something not quite cynical enough to be classified as a smirk twisting dusky lips.

There's a tiny grin of triumph and joy as the youth sprints home in time for supper.

…

Near the curfew of the main gate's closing, as the final city visitors trickles in, a lone, cloaked rider nears the gates on a dark horse.

"Name and business?" Willard the gate sentry is looking forward to his shift change, but every visitor must be processed and recorded. Even if he's tired. This close to the wedding, there must be no breaches in the town or castle.

A rattling wind sweeps the wall as the woman brushes back her hood, revealing alabaster skin and framed by dark hair. She speaks, but the wind obscures her words except to the sentry.

"—I'm here for the wedding."

Withdrawing a scroll from her sleeve, the woman unrolls it.

Willard cannot read, but he doesn't need to for this. He's seen several such scrolls today, all of them with a distinctive scrawl at the end, and the royal seal fixed next to the seneschal's beside it.

Oddly enough, this scroll has none of these things. Actually, it's blank.

Yet Willard scans it as though there were writing and he could indeed read it, and as though there were a scrawl and the two seals at the end of it.

"Very good, my lady. Will you need an escort up to the castle?"

"No need, good sir. I will be fine riding on my own. I enjoy the quiet, and I'll have little enough of it soon."

As she presses forward on her steed, a flash of poison green eyes wink from under the hood, even as the hooves dance in a percussion both nervous and confident, clattering up the hill toward the castle.

"I'm looking forward to meeting you… Arthur dearest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Round Table Transport: Yes, the Round table can be taken apart. How else could it fit through the doors? And yes, there can be that much trouble transporting things in an era before paved roads and rife with bandits.
> 
> Wedding Preparation and Diplomacy: Managing a group of people who have spent the past decade proving exactly how poorly they get along without a firm hand to restrain them is a very tricky business when you're trying to avoid slighting anyone.
> 
> 'Taffy': a racial slur against Welsh people. The Taff is the name of the river that runs through Cardiff, the capital of Wales. Also from a poem that starts: "Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief..." Another explanation is that Taffy is based on an English pronunciation of the common Welsh first name, "Daffyd" (David). (Source: The Racial Slur Database) Welsh are often stereotyped as small and dark, similar to fairies.
> 
> I should emphasize that the prejudice against Archer is more on suspicion of his being either non-human or foreign than on an ethnic basis, technically; it's just that the 'proof' of him being such is in his unusual physical appearance, so for all pragmatic purposes, it is racial prejudice.
> 
> Wearing motley: Motley is the classic, colorful jester's costume. 'Wearing motley' means to play the fool. A fool's position in historical courts and in literature depended not just on entertaining the king, but on speaking truths that no one else could get away with, taking advantage of a license to mock and speak freely to dispense common sense and highlight the monarch's folly. Someone else with greater authority could technically give the same advice… but might well also find himself in the dungeons for it.
> 
> Next chapter: The Wedding.


	5. IV: Advise and Consent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-marital advice, ambushes, ceremony, feasts, and unexpected gifts.
> 
> And unexpected visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys. This is the chapter that’s been very hard for me to write. I’ve done a lot of research into it to be accurate as I can  
> Remember, guys, this is the chapter that earns the story its rating. The final scene is dark. Very dark.  
> Warnings for magical body modification that was not consented to, magical date-rape/fertility drugs, and incestuous, graphic rape.  
> Also the last chapter until my class is done in a few weeks, in all likelihood, so please be patient, and don’t kill me for the cliffhanger.
> 
> Pre-chapter note, since I don't have enough room at the end:  
> ‘Bonny and buxom at bed and at board’: Anyone familiar with a traditional marriage ceremony might be surprised at this vow. This wonderfully alliterative phrase comes from the Use of Sarum, the earliest English marriage service I have found, which was authorized by the Bishop of Salisbury in 1085. In this very early version some of the vows were still in Latin while others were in Old English. The whole service is almost identical with our modern version except that the Latin has been translated and the line about bonny and buxom brides has been omitted.  
> Originally these words meant something rather different from now. "Bonny" is presumed to be from the French ‘bon’, or ‘good’, though Oxford English dictionary cannot trace an exact link; "buxom" is from an old German word meaning ‘pliant’ or ‘obedient’; "board" is where you put food (on the ‘sideboard’) so this means mealtimes; and "bed" simply meant ‘night-time’. So "Be bonny and buxom in bed and at board" meant: "Behave properly and obediently through night and day." The meanings of these words changed over the years and the church objected to talking about bonny and buxom brides in bed. The line was replaced with “to love, honour and obey” in 1549, under the watch of the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer. (The Virtual Linguist: Bonny and Buxom, Web Blog, August 2013) So, while the line sounds very strange and possibly kinky to modern linguistic sensibilities like Archer’s, it makes perfect sense to Gwen and Arturia.  
> Gawain: Arthur’s nephew, according to original legend, and I cannot find any Fate canon that contradicts this so far. If you can tell me his exact relation and how it differs, if it does, in Fate, I welcome it. The wedding day request for knighthood is taken from Le Morte D’Arthur.

_**In any case – to return to the Throne, it is perhaps best conceptualized as a combination of officer barracks and a library of academic military reports.** _

_**Each Meddler's soul is captured by Alaya in the moment between death and entering the cycle – the Norse legend of Valkyries swooping down and carrying fallen warriors off the field is, perhaps, a description of the process – and brought to the Throne, where a room has been specifically prepared for him or her, in accordance with personal tastes and aspects of the legend based around the new Hero.** _

_**There is usually an area set aside for a meal, and for sleeping, as well as for pursuing one's own interests – be they in combat, magic, research academia, musical composition, or otherwise. This is generally an illusion, however, for once the hero has lain down on the bed, they will sleep until something awakens them, and so not much use is had for the other areas of the room.** _

**\- From the thesis notes of an unidentified Clock Tower student**

…

_Feast of Pentecost, June 527._

_The day dawned bright and clear on the King's wedding morning, and the feast to celebrate it would last for seven days and seven nights. Truly, it was as much a celebration of peace as it was of the marriage._

…

"You want me to tell you  _what_?"

If he didn't know that Saber didn't have a normal understanding of humor, Archer would swear that she was  _trying_  to get him to drop his hammer on his foot.

"You did say you'd answer if I asked questions." The King's face is utterly serious.

Archer carefully sets his tools back down on the workbench. It's the wedding day, so the forge won't be running, but that doesn't prevent him from checking them over for potential damage. It gives him a minute to think that he badly needs.

"And why aren't you asking this of him?" he demands eventually, gesturing over to where Kay is leaning against the wall. Arturia's been dropping by his shop at regular intervals over the past month, usually in disguise, but sometimes not, ostensibly to check up on the order at first, then just for conversation. Of course, Kay eventually figured out where his younger sibling was going off to, and made his disapproval clear by accompanying her as a chaperone.

Archer's not sure how the boy's observance of their conversations has changed Kay's attitude, but he is quite certain that something  _has_ changed – the boy has visibly defrosted over time, if begrudgingly. Sometimes, he stares at his sister-brother as if unsure of who he's seeing. It breaks what's left of Emiya Shirou's heart, to think that her small smiles and openness with another person are so rare.

Today, Kay's claimed reason for his presence is to ensure that Arturia is to get to the wedding on time. Technically, she should be dressing already.

But instead, she's come here for advice. On being  _married_.

"Why not ask your father, for that matter?" Archer continues. If he's to be this confused, he is damn well taking the rest of the world with him. "I would have thought they could help you. Ought to be eager to, actually."

Arturia's face remains serious and natural, as if they were discussing any neutral topic. "Kay's profuse with advice about the bedroom, yes," she admits, ignoring her brother's abruptly flushed face and sudden coughing fit. Archer is now quite sure that she is perfectly aware of what she is doing, damn her puppy eyes. "But as for the aspects  _outside_ the bedroom – well, he's never been married, so I suppose I can't expect him to be helpful on that front."

Archer hasn't ever been married, either, even if he was thinking of proposing to Luvia when she left him – perhaps a part of him was hoping for a normal relationship, or he'd observed the problems subconsciously and naively believed that marriage could fix them, or it was simply that he'd genuinely believed himself completely in love with her. But he did live with her for a good five years out of the eight they dated, so he knows a few things.

Nor is he surprised that Arturia has made the mistake of his marital history. He's never corrected her, in the few weeks they've talked about topics that sometimes include their own lives, when she assumes about Luvia. It's not as if the priests would allow 'living in sin,' as this era would call it. She probably assumes Luvia is either dead or left him.

"I'm really not the best person to ask about this…" he begins, knowing how feeble the defense is.

Arturia just stares at him.

Oh, well. At least she's asked for  _non-bedroom_ advice. He could hardly give her  _that_ , not when he knows very well who and what she is, even if he doesn't let on. And… maybe she can have a better relationship with Gwen. He saw the strain it put on Luvia, to try to be in a relationship with a person who strived to be a living ideal.

"Fine. On the condition that you actually make use of the advice in your decisions and actions, my lord king."

Setting the tools down, he brushes off his bench, careful not to dirty his clothes. This is his best set of garments, even if the best he can say of them is that they're less worn than his two everyday sets of clothes. It's the outfit he reserves to attend the church of the god he does not believe it. Now he'll wear it to attend his King's wedding.

Where to begin?

"The first and most important piece to remember," he says after a moment, "is that all relationships need to be regularly maintained with communication." If there's an aspect he failed most at with Luvia, it's that – and even with both of them having to use their second language of English to communicate, he has absolutely no excuse for it.

"It's the same with swords, or horses," he elaborates, using an analogy that will hopefully get the importance of this across to the King. "Spend too much time away from them, and neither of you will remember how to work together as well as you might."

"How do I maintain that communication?" Arturia looks curious.

He's abruptly reminded of the difficulty Saber had with any small talk where the subject didn't connect back to either the War or food in some way.  _Did she never learn how_?

Well, it's not as if he learned that sort of thing easily. The Archery Club members had shared a common love for their club sport. Shinji wanted an audience to gloat to. Issei had usually wanted someone who paid attention to the time he spend on the details of student council responsibilities as well as someone to discuss current events with, even if he made an effort to get Shirou to add his own thoughts and opinions to matters. Kiritsugu had been an idolized father and teacher, to listen to and occasionally ask questions of. Fuji- _nee_  tended to alternate between begging for food or nagging him.

It wasn't until Sakura first began coming over to his house that their Club Advisor realized the issue, though in retrospect she'd probably put a lot of it down to Shirou having to deal with a pretty girl his own age in his space. She'd helped facilitate both of their social skills, helping to build the acquaintance into a genuine friendship.

Rin had been an ally in the war, and mainly cared to discuss strategy or tease the magecraft ignoramus when she wasn't ranting at his stupidity.

Illya and Luvia had been the first ones to teach him small-talk in general. It is their lessons he recalls now.

"You're already busy with a lot, as King." He'd been constantly busy, too – with schoolwork, with his job, with his newfound mentor in Rin and his new little sister. As long as he was busy, he didn't have to remember how he'd chosen to fail his Servant and save the world.

"Make sure you reserve some time, just to spend with your wife." Illya had forced him to actively practice his role as an older brother, interested in his little sister's activities and finding her interested in his doings. She never stopped questioning him. And she got very jealous if his thoughts wandered, so multi-tasking was not acceptable. "Signing documents in her presence does not count. I know it will be difficult to find time for you both, out of the public eye, or even the eyes of your guards. But find it. Neglecting her is a silent statement that you do not value her enough to make that time." He never neglected Illya, especially not at the end. But he cannot say the same for Luvia.

"A marriage is a partnership, with equal responsibilities. Do your share, and let your wife do hers. Work  _with_  her, not alongside her." If he hadn't been a lone hero, who knows what he could have done? People fear a lone man whose motives they cannot understand, but maybe if he'd managed a group… No. He can't look back now on his failures. "Offer to help her. Ask for her help. Accept her help if she offers it, and give it if she asks for it."

Arturia frowns. "I do not see how Guinevere can help me against the Saxons."

First stumbling block. Best to cut  _that_  line of thought off, before she can find all her allies insufficient. "Oh? Do you believe that your bride has a mind, one that she uses, sire?" This is an important question, especially given Archer has yet to meet Guinevere in person, and he is uncertain how Saber's memories and time altered the girl in her time as Queen.

Arturia looks indignant. "Of course she does! I wouldn't have asked her if she didn't!"

"Good." Archer smiles at her bewilderment. "Then be sure you treat her as an intelligent, adult woman. No one appreciates being treated as having the competence of a half-wit." It was one of Illya's greatest frustrations, to be a twenty-year-old woman with the body of a child. Half the time, she used the advantages her body gave her just to drive other people to an equal level of frustration. Particularly if it came to matters of alcohol, relationships, or adult rated movies.

"Talk with her, regularly, about what you are doing and why you find it important. Encourage her to do the same, and listen to what she says." He'd listened plenty to Luvia's frustrations with managing her family, as well as their attempts to manage her. He'd never really gotten that she was asking for his help, until she outright  _asked_. "If she mentions it often, it's important to her; be sure to treat it as such, even if you don't understand the value in it personally. Simply having another person to talk to is more of a help than you might think. If nothing else, having someone to question you will ensure that you  _are_  thinking, and not merely acting on impulse."

Archer pauses, trying to decide what else he needs to say. He wants both of them to form their own identities, after all. "Neither of you are able to read the other's mind, so don't expect to. Discussing what each of you wants, and what you are willing to do to accomplish it, will help to minimize surprises. Set boundaries ahead of time, and try to stick to them. Don't walk all over her, and don't let her walk all over you." He and Luvia kept switching who was doing the 'walking over' bit, usually flaring up the most when his quest to be a Hero let him to forget promises he'd made her. He'd apologize for forgetting and hurting her, but not for doing his best to help others. He's not surprised she got tired of it.

"Even with the constant communication, there will be problems, eventually," he warns, not wanting her to be blindsided. "There will be fights. There will be unprecedented disasters. There will be mild but constant annoyances. And all of that is normal." He kept expecting his life with Luvia to be perfect, often attempting pre-emptive apologies to avoid fights he sensed building. She told him, flatly, that it was an attempt to win an argument by not having one, and she refused to be manipulated like that. "You do not live in a ballad, happy or tragic, so do not expect your lives to mirror one."

Arturia looks about to protest that, but keeps her mouth shut.

"Sometimes you will say things you cannot take back." Luvia's suggestion that he was in love with someone else. "Sometimes you will leave things unsaid that should be said aloud." If Illya had told him the truth of who she was earlier…

"If two parties have an argument, both have a partial share of the blame." He narrows his eyes at her. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: you are terrible at apologizing, my lord King, and you do it too often. Don't assume you know all of what the problem is, don't assume you're responsible for it, and even if you are responsible, don't assume it is  _all_ your fault and  _only_ your fault." It's a mistake he saw repeated too frequently in his days with Saber, even if part of the problem was the formalities she relied on.

"If you are responsible, acknowledge what happened in full. But only apologize for it if you are sorry for it. Otherwise, you are apologizing for getting caught, or for hurting her." It took him far too long to realize that with Luvia. No, that's not right. He didn't realize it on his own. Rin had to tell him.

Kay shifts. "We're running short on time, sire."

Arturia frowns at him.

"Two more things," Archer says, quickly. "First: you can only be honest with her if you are honest with yourself first. And second – advise and consent. If there is a matter that concerns her, inside or outside the bedroom, advise her of it. And be sure you get her consent before you do anything about it." It's not as full a discussion of issues of consent as he would like, not after Sakura's abuse – the extent of which, he's ashamed to admit, took several loops of the War for him to realize – but since this is a marriage of friendship and in name more than a true marriage of love and politics, it can and will have to do. He's probably covered things that could to apply to non-romantic relationships as well, but given Saber's abysmal social skills, that's just as well.

Kay is staring oddly. Perhaps that last bit was too modern a notion? A distraction is needed. "Or else, crown or no crown, you will find that an unhappy wife does not have to work hard to make your life unhappy as well!" The jest works; Kay relaxes, huffing a chuckle.

"The rest, I believe, your wedding vows cover. Well, the vows, and the bedroom advice you say you've already received." Rolling down his sleeves, Archer reaches for his jacket and hat.

"Then allow me to gift you something in return for the advice, Smith Farran. Are you aware of tomorrow's entertainment for the wedding?"

He blinks, twisting his head over his shoulder to meet her eyes. "As far as I'm aware, there are some contests of sport. Wrestling and footraces and such." It would be hard  _not_  to be aware, with all the heralds and town criers proclaiming the schedule for sundry and all to hear.

"Yes. And archery in the afternoon. The prize is a purse of fifty gold half-sovereigns."

Archer stares at her a moment longer, then turns away. "Why tell me this?"

Kay snorts. "That bow of yours isn't as hidden on the wall as you think, smith. It's unstrung, yes, but it's in good shape – unless it's for decoration?"

Archer scowls. There's no need to keep his face composed if no one else can see it. Kay knows perfectly well that no one but a noble is stupid or rich enough to keep a weapon he can't make use of. "Only a foolish man would travel to Cameliard and back without some protection." It's not quite an acknowledgement of his own marksmanship, but it's as close as he's willing to come.

"I think you could make use of the money. There's no entrance fee. And I think you would enjoy yourself." The King straightens, brushing off her tunic. "Just a bit of advice. It's your choice, Smith Farran."

The bells chime out the hour of ten. The wedding is at noon. Kay flinches, untying the horses from the hitching post.

"Good morrow, Smith Farran." Arturia easily swings herself onto the saddle, her foster-brother a second slower. "Thank you for your time."

"Good morrow, my lord King, and don't be late to your wedding," Archer returns, but at that point the pair are already riding back towards the castle, likely too far to hear him. "And good luck," he adds under his breath, staring after the blue and silver knight.

He's about to lock up before taking a slow walk to the cathedral, when a throat clears behind him in the shop.

"You give some good advice, boy."

Archer whirls, cursing his combat instincts that seem to have gone dormant, only flaring once the intruder has chosen to make himself known. He finds his hammer in hand, uncertain of how it got there.

A cloaked figure stands in the shadows of the forge, the folds of the hood covering all but the mouth and part of the nose.

"Are you really just a smith?" The head tilts, a bird cocking its head as it sizes up prospective prey. "Or perhaps you're a bard looking to switch trades, yes? Or maybe a soldier, leaving his past behind?"

 _A bard? The hell – Ignore it._ "I think I should be the one asking questions. Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my shop?" Archer forces away his instinct to materialize the blades he's automatically pre-Traced. His eyes are narrowed to focus on his target, his body tensed to move.

A being that can enter without alerting Archer's senses, and apparently opening and closing any doors or windows without his notice. Very dangerous. And that's before taking into account the magic that is radiating from the figure at suffocating levels – levels that no human can mimic, not even those from the Age of the Gods. The tiny smithy has no room to dodge. But with his low Magic Resistance, if this person attacks…  _I'm in trouble._

"No need for hostilities," the man says, slipping back his hood.

If Archer needed any further confirmation that his guest was not human, or at least not fully human, this would be sufficient. Part-humans can try to disguise themselves, but there's always some point that gives it away. Red eyes mean first-generation divine heritage. A lack of pigment signals too much prenatal alchemical meddling, as with homunculi. Pointed ears signal some form of non-human heritage, as do other unusual eye and hair pigmentation, but these are less associated with a distinct ancestry.

The current visitor has hair longer than what is appropriate for a man, yet shorter than that of a woman's, its color flickering between silver and hints of the rainbow's spectrum. Physically, his body is a man's, maybe just past twenty, slender and moderately fit but without the telling muscle build from weapon practice. His movements are as graceful as any panther's, his skin pale. His face is bare of stubble, clean-shaven without needing a razor. And his eyes are cat-like, with pale lavender-blue pupils that glow with otherworldly light and knowledge ancient beyond measure.

"I'm simply here to meet the man who 'de-crowned' the king."

Archer refuses to let out the snort of disbelief. There's nothing 'simple' when it comes to supernatural beings, but he knows better than to call one a liar to its face. "I'll ask again. Who are you?" His hands are aching to call his swords. But his bow is on the wall behind his visitor, and he  _cannot_  afford a witch-hunt, or attention drawn to a fight. Not when this person has been eavesdropping for who knows how long on his conversation with the King.

The 'man' claps a hand to his heart in mock regret. "Have I really neglected the introductions? That's poor manners on  _both_  our sides, don't you think?" He spreads his arms, and Archer tenses, expecting a spell, even as his visitor bows. "All right, then. My name is Merlin." He straightens, beaming. "Perhaps you've heard of me?"

Merlin.

The Magician who brought about King Arthur's existence through magic and deception. The royal advisor who arranged for the heir's fostering and created the test of the Sword in the Stone to secure said heir's return. The man who arranged the royal sword's replacement with a blade equally worthy of kingship after Caliburn was lost. The man whose ability to view the future extended into decades beyond the present, and who planned accordingly for it.

The man whose absence from court marked the beginning of the end for King Arthur. And for what reason? His own love-affair problems.

Archer has never been quite sure what to feel about Merlin. Saber referred to him half-fondly, half-irritably, as an 'old man who was fondest of making mischief and love, and happiest of all when he could mix them.' For all his whimsies, Merlin is clearly a shrewd politician. But he is also longer-lived than any human, and plans accordingly. A major disaster to a human life means very little in the long term. For all that the Magus warned Saber before she drew the sword, was that actually a warning? Or simply an illusion of a choice to trap her further, knowing she would not back down from what she felt was her duty?

He does not know if this man will be his ally, enemy, or someone to work around. All he knows is that Merlin is dangerous, and should be constantly watched.

"I was amused, at first, when I heard there was someone besides me who would lecture the king," the magus says absently, trailing his hand across the finished swords by the wall. There's not many left, now; Arturia's filled much of the castle's armory with them, and has placed an order for weighted practice blades. "Even I don't usually call kings idiots to their faces. But fae are often daring like that, aren't they? Except you're not fae, for all the rumors. Just abnormally tall. Maybe some giant's blood a few generations back, but even that's pretty thin, if it's there at all. Foreign, certainly, but no spy draws attention like that, either in looks or with incidents like the helmet removal. If they do, it's a mistake, and you don't strike me as the kind of man who makes mistakes. I don't usually see that mastery of words outside of bards."

Archer intends to ask if this is a prelude to getting turned out of his own shop, or dragged off for interrogation. But being so confrontational on the first encounter, before he's gotten a better feel for Merlin beyond the magician's chosen façade is a bit too suicidal even for him. Instead, Archer resorts to his usual verbal shields. "A bard? What suggested that? My non-existent harp? I know I'm not the most financially successful blacksmith, but I didn't think I looked  _that_  weak."

Merlin blinks innocently, his fine robes shifting about him, still refusing to pick up a single trace of charcoal dust. "Well, not now, obviously. But bards are the romantics, and generally if one needs relationship advice 'outside the bedroom', one asks a bard. Or a matchmaker, I suppose, but only if they want to be immediately married." Lavender cat-eyes blink slowly. "You mean you're not?"

Archer tries very hard not to twitch.

He understands Saber's sentiments perfectly now.

…

"…we are gathered here today in the sight of God…"

Guinevere's eyes stay locked on her husband's. This is the day she's been hoping for and dreading. Her fate is sealed – almost.

"Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, by God's Law, or by the Laws of the Realm; let him speak now, or else forever hereafter hold his peace."

No one does speak, of course. Arturia holds her breath. Now comes the moment of truth: can Guinevere lie by omission?

"I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreaded day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together…"

The moment passes. Half of Arturia's mind stays on the priest's; the other is back in the forge, hearing the echo of Archer's words, matching her breathing to it.

"Arthur Pendragon, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together in God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, honor her, comfort her, and keep her…"

She's made vows as a knight that she has had to let fall by the wayside to do her duty and fulfill her vows as King. This is the easiest vow she's ever made, as she watches the smile turn from nervous to confidence.

"I will."

For this moment, she may be a false male, but she is also human. And the human 'Arthur' Pendragon wishes for nothing more or less than for Guinevere to be happy.

_Do you trust me, Gwen? Let me be worthy of it, let me repay you for it with happiness and care._

"I will," Guinevere says, and though her words are to the Archbishop, Arturia chooses to think they are an answer to her silent request as well. Guinevere, like Kay, has always been better at reading people than the King. There is a reason she trusts them both with her back.

Right hands are joined as the Minister turns them, half-facing the crowd, half-facing each other. Guinevere swallows hard, and Arturia squeezes her friend's hand reassuringly. That sea of faces will terrify her as well, if she lets it.

"I, Arthur Pendragon, take thee Guinevere, daughter of Leodegrance, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, for fairer or fouler…" She echoes the Minister's words half in a dream, and watches as Guinevere echoes the words after her.

A tiny part of her, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Goodsmith Farran, snorts at the phrasing 'fairer or fouler' that suggests husbands must put up with whatever their wives look like, and wonders how many husbands with 'fouler' wives actually keep to such vows.

Both drop their eyes when Guinevere gets to the main difference in their lines, knowing from experience that further eye contact is risking a nervous stutter from the weight of the eyes on them. "…in sickness and in health, to be bonny and buxom at bed and at board, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth."

Gwen doesn't know that Arturia made the mistake of rehearsing both sides of the vows in Smith Farran's shop once. The man had refused to stop snickering and wouldn't explain why, and the laughter, even in memory, is contagious. It's the laughter of one who has no intention whatsoever to remain dignified, compulsively chuckling at 'bonny and buxom.' ' _Women are told to be chaste and virtuous, yet with their husbands…?!'_ He hadn't been able to explain through his merriment, and not even Kay could explain what had set the smith off when she asked later.

She passes the ring to the Priest for the blessing, One more pledge, in material form.

"With this ring I thee wed, and with my body I thee honor, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…"

There's a moment when they kneel.

"Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder…"

They rise at the priest's command.

It's done. They're wedded. King Arthur Pendragon has a wife and queen.

…

Twenty courses. And she has to sit through and eat all of them, once they're tasted for poison.

That would be bad enough, but the guest list makes things a nightmare.

Kay is no help. He's had nightmares about preparing for this; now he's having to deal with his section of the cantankerous, feuding, easily offended nobles. He's  _good_  at this stuff. Arturia can play along, but gets lost too easily once she moves past the formalities.

Guinevere is every inch a queen, her smiles welcoming but unbiased in their favor. Truly, she is every bit the partner hoped for.

But what benefit is there for Guinevere in the years to come, when the whispers swell as her belly remains flat? She's given up any chance of a lover, of children, of a quiet house in the country or helping to rule her father's kingdom. She's chosen a life of lying, and Arturia knows all too well that Guinevere is not a natural liar and hates to speak them.

Yet someone had to be Queen, and she trusts no one for the role but Gwen.

What is she repaying her with? An empty life of jewels and courtiers' barbs? A life where every action is scrutinized, picked apart until not even the bones are left?

A light squeeze on her arm alerts her to Guinevere, gazing at the musicians in front of her, performing a country song. Arturia offers a polite smile and applause, and tosses a bit of gold their way when they finish. She's parsing out her money for this tradition carefully; they must appear lavish, but cannot spend too much at the moment until the accounts are in order and they know exactly where the treasury stands. Getting people back in the habit of paying their tithes, and to whom, is going to be tricky.

Before the next entertainer can begin, a boy in a squire's clothes, Orkney's insignia pinned to his tunic, scarcely on the verge of manhood, approaches to kneel before her.

"My lord King, I am Gawain, Prince of Orkney, firstborn son of King Lot and Queen Morgause," he begins as the hall falls silent.

Guinevere hisses silently in surprise. Puzzled at the reaction, King Arthur lifts green eyes to gaze on the youth.

Then she understands.

The haircut is different, but a perfect match in color. The eyes are the same shape, if slightly bluer. He hasn't reached his full growth yet. But right now – it's impossible not to see the resemblance between the two of them.

"You are welcome, nephew," the King says, waving a hand for him to rise. She's never met his mother, her sister, but kinship ties should be acknowledged.

The youth smiles, but remains kneeling. "My lord King, I would ask a boon of you, on your wedding day."

Arturia sighs inwardly. She does not like protocol on occasions such as this. She hopes she isn't about to bankrupt herself. "Ask, and I shall grant it to you."

Gawain bows his head. "Sir, I ask that you make me a knight tomorrow, the second morning of celebrations for your wedding to fair Guinevere."

Is that all? Arthur frowns, and looks him up and down deliberately. "Does your knight-master approve this? Has he said you are ready?" She shifts her gaze to the boy's parents.

There's a woman standing with them, one she does not recall the name of. Dark and pale, and very beautiful, and smiling straight at the King. Why can Arturia not remember the name? She thought she'd memorized all those with Lot's party.

But Lot is already nodding, and she must shift her attention back. "As his father and knight-master, I declared him ready yesterday. It is his choice to ask you – and your choice to grant or withhold it as you will."

Damn. Now she can't refuse, not without making a political mess. She only hopes the young man is as ready as he purports to be.

"Then hold vigil in the chapel tonight," she proclaims. "And I will knight you tomorrow."

Gawain bows and returns to his chair, applause spreading around the room. Arturia returns her gaze to Lot and his wife, but finds their companion gone.

Before she can look further, the herald is speaking. "My Lord Merlin, the Magus of Flowers."

Applause, slightly muted by whispers..

Arturia snaps her gaze to the front.

She hasn't clapped eyes on the man since he opened the hidden hall to hold the Round Table, weeks ago. Now he appears, all smiles, and she just  _knows_  that he's up to something. Even if she didn't know his habits, the knights following behind him would be an unmistakable clue.

But Merlin has chosen his moment well. She cannot reprimand him when all eyes are on them.

That's fine. If she needs to twist his ear, she can wait.

"My lord King," Merlin says, in apparent respect, but she can hear the tease in his tone. "I have done as you bade me, and looked for knights to help fill the remaining fifty seats at your newly gifted Round Table, all of them of most prowess and worship. I have searched throughout the land, and found twenty-eight, but no more could I find in time to return for your wedding. Still, I have returned with what I managed, that they may do you homage." He gestures to the knights, fourteen at each side, kneeling behind him.

Smug old man. Arturia never gave him such an order. But apparently, pondering aloud how to solve the problem is enough for the man to take initiative on his own.

She'll have to remember not to do that in the future. It's bad enough if Merlin does it, but if someone else heard her grumbles on a bad day and decided to take her idle musings as orders… that would be a disaster.

"Your action is… well-thought of, Merlin," she says at last, catching her brother's eye. "Sir Kay, see these men have sleeping arrangements and food and drink once I have received them. Merlin, I believe I'd like your report in private directly after that."

The magus smiles and nods in acceptance of the order. That isn't comforting at all. Merlin  _hates_  being pinned down or predictable. Why is he so acquiescing to her wishes now? Is it her wedding day? Or has she walked straight into another of his plans?

For now, she listens to the knights as, one by one, they name themselves and swear an oath to her service, which she accepts, the words tripping off her tongue by rote.

As soon as it's possible under good manners, Arturia leaves the hosting in the hands of Guinevere, then drags herself after where she's seen a flash of silvery-rainbow hair.

"Ah, my lord King!" He's flirting with the maidservants. Again. Why is she not surprised? Bloody skirt-chaser. Someday that's going to get him killed, she's certain of it.

Gripping his wrist, she pulls him into a private alcove.

"What is the meaning of this, Magus?"

He blinks at her, innocent as the puppy with the plate empty of meat on the table beside it. "The meaning of what, my lord King?"

"Your newfound goodwill." It is completely unlike Merlin to go out seeking people on her behalf without her orders. Things, yes – Excalibur is a fine example of that, even if she suspects he was secretly waiting for her to lament her lack of a blade aloud. But not people. He would have had his own suggestion for a bride, otherwise.

He squints at her, then grins. "Have you drunk so much fine wedding ale as to cause memory loss already, sire? I protest, I have always been quite charitable to you."

Arturia snorts, a wordless sound that expresses far better what she thinks of  _that_  suggestion than any speech. Charity? Charity is an action that benefits your soul and removes guilt, at best. All Merlin's actions have always had a certain degree of self-interest – if not for him personally, then for the country's sake in general.

"In fact, my 'goodwill,' as you put it, is not newfound, nor is it over." He waves a hand, dulling the noise of the hall. "I have a second gift for you tonight."

Here it comes. Might as well get it over with. "Oh? What is it? Have you found more knights after all? Perhaps another concealed room to put them in?"

"Nothing quite that large, I assure you. And it's only temporary – anything more than a week would be dangerous for you. But I daresay you'll find a use for it."

"What are you –"

Abruptly, he's leaning in. Is he trying to  _kiss_ her?! The hell?!

She shoves at him, hearing sharp-tongued syllables that crackle with power, but he places a hand on her stomach and –  _pushes_  something at her, before backing away.

"Merlin," Arturia demands, "What did you just… do…"

Something painful  _yanks_  at her insides, twists and pulls them. As she shakes her head to clear the dizziness, she freezes.

A fighter always knows her body. Except – something's changed. Her hips have shifted, and something's dangling between her legs when she tries to press them together.

Her gaze snaps up to the magus.

"I've replaced the bridal ale in your chambers with a potion to help you and Guinevere later, already measured into your cups. Both of you need to drink, but it will move her cycle to its most fertile point, and increase your own… male potency." The magus snickers. "Please do enjoy yourselves, my lord King. May I be the child's godfather when it comes?"

Hang good manners. Arturia finally lets her instincts go, and launches a haymaker at him.

Merlin is already gone, his laughter echoing behind.

He's altered her body without her permission. He's left her with a vague plan half an hour before the guests escort her and Guinevere to the bridal chambers. And he's made sure she can't deviate without causing an uproar.

Arturia would like to curse at him and hunt him down. That would mean abandoning Gwen, and she can't do that.

Gwen.

" _It takes a man to be a 'proper husband,' whatever that means… I will not be able to provide an heir at all…"_

Except Merlin just implied that Arturia could give her that, now. Can she really stop the whispers of 'barren' before they even start?

" _The rest, I believe, your wedding vows cover. Well, the vows, and the bedroom advice you say you've already received."_

Bedroom advice. For a male.

Oh, gods.

"Kay! A word!"

The King needs her big brother  _now_.

…

Arturia lies half drowsing in her sheets, eyes turned to the door.

Unable to fall asleep, constantly conscious of the strangeness between her legs, she waits for her wife to return.

With Merlin timing his prank for just before their departure from the feast, she barely managed to drag Kay aside to explain the situation. He covered as much as he could in a few minutes, but it still hadn't been very much.

Guinevere was shocked, but not entirely surprised once she heard Merlin was involved. It was easy enough for her to sip half the fertility potion, disguised as bridal ale, before they began to fumble off their own clothes.

Coupling is awkward enough when neither party has much of an idea of how to go about it, but a new and unused set of genitalia make it all the worse. Despite Arturia's best efforts, she knows it was not at all pleasant for Guinevere. And even though her own efforts have left her relaxed beyond memory in the aftermath of pleasure, guilt over her bride's attempt to hide her discomfort pervades her thoughts. Currently, at Arturia's encouragement, Guinevere is making use of the bath placed in the side room. Hopefully, the still-warm water will be a balm to her when the King cannot be.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour passes before a light pattering of feet alerts Arturia to her wife's return.

Guinevere slips beneath the sheets, a mischevious grin on her face as she tucks  _icy_  feet against Arturia's legs. The king yelps, pushing herself upright with a stern look.

"Is that your revenge?"

Guinevere giggles. "Revenge? No, that's just the beginning." Reaching past Arturia for the wine goblets, she finishes her drink, before pushing the rest at Arturia's lips.

"What are you doing?" Arturia frowns. She knows that drink contains both fertility potion and aphrodisiac. If they drink that now, they'll both be in for an uncomfortable night.

Guinevere giggles again – is she drunk? – before reaching out and pinching her husband's nose. Arturia reflexively opens her mouth and finds she's swallowed half the remainder before batting her hands away.

"Gwen, go to sleep. I think you're drunk." She's certainly flushed enough for it.

"I'm not tired. If I'm going to be in pain, I want a child out of it. Let's make sure of it." Guinevere swings her leg nimbly over the side, and pins the blonde to the bed.

Arturia shakes her head in exasperation. "I told you, stop. I know you're still in pain. We have another week of the spell. You don't need to push yourself –" Abruptly, she stills.

No matter how good the soak, no woman that sore should be moving so easily so soon. Arturia had to help Guinevere walk to the bath, and was expecting her to call to help her back out.

Yet now this person returns on her own, ingests the remainder of the bridal ale, and tips the rest down Arturia's throat.

And Arturia's limbs are strangely sluggish.

"Who are you?" she gasps, attempting to struggle, to get at the sword by her bed, the knife in her boot,  _anything_ she can uses as a weapon. "What have you done with my wife?!"

"Oh, you finally caught on?" The woman straddling her, clad in Guinevere's skin, smiles, and closes her eyes. "Then I suppose I don't need to keep this up any more."

Auburn waves straighten and shorten to a midnight black. Skin pales from sun-kissed pink warmth to cool alabaster. The bosom under the nightgown grows fuller, and the body straddling Arturia grows heavier, even as her struggles grow steadily weaker. Finally, the closed eyes open, to reveal not walnut brown but catlike pupils of poison green – a near-perfect match for Arturia's own.

"The woman at the feast… Who are you?"

The strange beauty smiles, coldly, even as her hips begin a slow rock over Arturia's groin. "Why, Arthur darling, I'm hurt. Don't you know me? I'm Morgan."

The breath leaves Arturia's lungs in a wave of horror. She scarcely remembers the time before her fifth birthday, when she came to dwell with Sir Ector and Kay, but she remembers hearing about Morgan.  _Uther's older daughter. Legitimate. My half-sister_.

"Or should I say,  _Arturia_?" The smile never lifts, but the words are a snarl.

"You know, don't you? How father engineered the birth of a perfect heir? One who would maintain the protection of the British Isle? Did you know they used the same potion you drank tonight?"

"Guards!"

But no one appears.

"They won't hear you," Morgan coos. "Your bride is asleep in her bath, and will remain that way. No one can hear you. Don't try and fight, and she won't get hurt."

Arturia glares, trying to buck the woman off. It does nothing but increase the friction, make the ache worse. Morgan looms over her, dark green eyes dialated, hips never ceasing their slow rock.

"You stole the throne from me,  _sister dear_. I'm the elder, I have the dragon blood as well, even if they never intended me to inherit it." Morgan tips her head back, in sly amusement, even as her hands move beneath the nightshirts, pushing them up. To her horror, Arturia recognizes the familiar sensation from earlier that evening, blood pooling between her legs to make her ache and stiffen.  _No…_

A hand clenches around the unnatural cock, tightening to the point of pain. "Just as much a girl as I am a woman, even with this. A little girl who parades around in men's armor and a crown of fool's gold with a fancy sword. You think you're king? You think you can save this country? You can't even save yourself." The hand strokes rapidly, moisture soaking Arturia beneath their gowns. "Look at how much you want this. How much you want me, even when you know I'm your sister!"

_No, damnit, that's not true! That thing isn't me!_

The head shakes in mock sympathy. "Poor little  _brother_ … I suppose I'd better do something about that."

Abruptly, Morgan lifts herself, then pushes down.

Arturia cries out. She can't help it. Gwen was tight and warm, but dry with fear and inexperience, only a bit of blood to ease the passage. This? This is sensation on a level she's never imagined, clenching wetness coaxing her into something beyond… she doesn't even know what. She doesn't  _want_  to know what. Shame flushes her cheeks, as she vainly shoves at her sister. Her arms are weaker than an invalid's now, as if she's never grasped a sword.

"Please…"  _Stop…_

It's a weak cry. It's ignored.

"It should have been mine. It  _will_ be mine." Morgan's pace is hard and fast, nowhere near the gentle slowness with Gwen. "I'm going to take everything from you… piece… by… piece." Her pattern is breaking, becoming unsteady. "I'm going to watch you fail. I'm going to enjoy it, just like  _you're_  enjoying this." Pressure is building up, near the base of the false cock, and Morgan's muscles clench around the length. "Silly little girl, what makes you think you can protect a country, when you can't even protect yourself?"

Arturia gasps. Lightning sparks at her spine and pushes up. Her vision goes white, then black.

The last thing she hears as she passes out is Morgan's darkly satisfied laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgan Le Fay: One of my hardest characters, partially because she’s one of the people whose facts conflict from the original myth and Fate canon than almost anyone else.  
> Original Arthurian cycle has Arthur sleep unknowingly with his half-sister Morgause, who later gives birth to Mordred. Morgan Le Fay is actually another sister, a skilled sorceress, who actively works against Arthur in her own right, rather than merely through her offspring. Both Morgause and Morgan are daughters of Igraine, Arthur’s mother, by her first husband Gorlois.  
> Later retellings have often merged Morgan, an active female character who is sometimes an enemy and sometimes an ally, and Morgause, who mainly appears as the wife of King Lot of Orkney and the mother of the knights Gawain, Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth, in addition to Mordred. It is only in the twentieth century that the two have begun to be used as separate characters again.  
> Fate ‘verse keeps the merged version, at least so far as Mordred goes, while changing other things even further. Morgan is Uther’s daughter rather than Igraine’s. She is also, as mentioned in her rant, a natural inheritor of the draconic traits Merlin engineered to ensure an heir that embodied the realm’s supernatural protection – and thus, a more viable candidate for the throne. Despite being the elder, she is also the successor who was unplanned, and thus spurned. And she is very good at planning vengeance.  
> Merlin’s Prank, Parallels Across Canons, and The Rape: As noted above, Original Arthurian cycle has Arthur sleep unknowingly with his half-sister Morgause, who later gives birth to Mordred. This requires Arthur to both be male and easily seduced.  
> Fate ’verse has a different solution for Mordred’s conception: Merlin’s infamous prank. As far as I can trace, Merlin’s most infamous prank in Fate was done half for the lulz, half to deal with the serious lack of an heir – a problem he had dealt with just one generation ago. I therefore decided that the genitalia alteration (Fate canon) would combine with a two-part fertility potion (my own invention), which might well be the same method used to help conceive Arthur during Uther’s first night with Igraine. This not only ensures Guinevere, who may not be in the fertile part of her cycle, can ensure a pregnancy, but adds an additional creepy factor when someone else takes advantage of the spell.  
> Canonically, Morgan takes advantage of to magically collect semen from Arturia and combine it with her own eggs, eventually producing Mordred. The circumstances under which she does so have remained unrevealed, and it appears uncertain whether Arturia was even aware of it.  
> So why the choice of rape? Why not a spell that Arturia would never be aware of?  
> First, if you remember my note about Igraine and Uther a couple chapters ago, we know that Arthur’s conception in the original myth boils down to a rape by deception. Mordred’s conception mirrors that in the original seduction by Morgause, so I decided that my version should mirror that as well.  
> Second, while we may not have seen the semen collected, we do know what happened in Fate when Mordred revealed her true identity to Arturia, including Arturia’s reaction:  
> However, Artoria rejected Mordred very clearly.  "I see. Even if you were born my sister's plotting, you were certainly born from me. However, I will not recognize you as my son nor will I give you the throne." (Character Material, Type Moon)  
> The reaction seemed far more emotional than Arturia’s usual path of logic, more than could be explained by the revelation of an unknown child. Mordred puts the reaction down to Arturia’s hatred of Morgan, extending to her son. Arturia rejects the notion at Camlann when asked, claiming she has never despised Mordred.  
> So what if it’s not the child that she’s rejecting? What if she’s trying to deny the event that led to the child’s creation?  
> And why would she do that… unless it was a rape, and she could remember it?  
> This also would explain Arturia’s extreme focus on control and denial of her own feelings – it’s a coping mechanism for the trauma when she could not fight her opponent off. It’s a denial of every taunt Morgan threw at her during the rape. It’s the choice to isolate herself so that no one can notice the shame and soiling she feels is visible.  
> Rape victims can have very different coping mechanisms. This is just one of them.  
> I should also point out: Yes, it is entirely possible for a girl to rape a guy. A sexual reaction is not the same as consent to sex. Erection is stimulation, a physical response to a stimulus. It can be a response to entirely mechanical stimulus without any feeling of arousal involved. (Sarah LeTrent. October 10, 2013. CNN, ‘Against his will: Female-on-male rape.’)
> 
> (continued in first comment for this chapter).


	6. V: At All Times To Speak The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assumptions can conceal a great many monsters. And Silence should not be assumed to be consent, or agreement.
> 
> Part one of a chapter that got too long and is being split in half. Second part should be up in a few days.
> 
> EDIT 6/11/16 - sidesaddle, as a historical anachronism, is replaced by pillion - a small, cushion like seat that could be attached to the back of a regular saddle. Used by women who chose not to ride astride until the sidesaddle's invention during the 1300s. Incidentally, someone who uses a pillion has no control of the horse, unlike a sidesaddle rider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! Hi, everyone!
> 
> My current chapter has been getting so long that I decided to split it in two. So, you can expect another update in a couple days, once I finish the end.
> 
> First, a note on the last chapter, in case you didn't see the update to my author's notes. Since so many of you were suspicious about my reasoning of Arturia's rejection of Mordred, let me clarify. Arturia refused Mordred two things: to recognize Mordred as her son, and to give Mordred the throne.
> 
> Let me remind you that history is filled with kings who acknowledge their illegitimate children – without ever legitimizing the child, or bringing them into the line of succession. Therefore, saying Arturia rejected Mordred for simple politics is not clear enough, or she would have no reason to refuse to recognize Mordred as her son in private if not in public.
> 
> Second, my author's notes have likewise been split, so you get some information this chapter, and some of it the next.
> 
> Enjoy your reward, readers - and remember, it's part one.
> 
> P.S. Also, no longer including 'Clock Tower Thesis notes'. May upload that part of the prologue in full as a separate story on ao3 for posterity's sake at a later time.
> 
> Chapter notes:  
> Rape Trauma Syndrome: RTS is a cluster of psychological and physical signs, symptoms and reactions common to most (though not all) rape victims. Many of the symptoms overlap with PTSD. It is not universal, and should not be treated as a litmus test for whether a crime occurred or not.
> 
> Commonly, the symptoms are divided into three stages, which a survivor can shift between: acute distress (the immediate aftermath, which may last from days to a few weeks), repression/outward adjustment (several months to many years, during which the survivor appears to have resumed a normal lifestyle, but simultaneously suffers profound internal turmoil which may manifest in a variety of ways), and renormalization (at which point the survivor begins to recognize his or her adjustment phase, the impact the rape has had upon his or her life, and the secondary damage of any counterproductive coping mechanisms – the rape is no longer the central focus of one's life, guilt and shame become resolved, and survivors no longer blame themselves for the attack.)
> 
> Arturia is currently in the acute stage.
> 
> There is no "typical" response among rape victims. However, the U.S. Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN) asserts that, in most cases, a rape victim's acute stage can be classified as one of three responses: expressed ("He or she may appear agitated or hysterical, [and] may suffer from crying spells or anxiety attacks"); controlled ("the survivor appears to be without emotion and acts as if 'nothing happened' and 'everything is fine'"); or shock/disbelief ("the survivor reacts with a strong sense of disorientation. They may have difficulty concentrating, making decisions, or doing everyday tasks. They may also have poor recall of the assault"). Not all rape survivors show their emotions outwardly. Some may appear calm and unaffected by the assault.
> 
> More info on the symptoms in the next chapter. If you need information immediately, the RAINN website and other crisis centers are an excellent resource.

"Gwen! Gwen, wake up… _please_!"

Slumber is a miser, its tendrils sticky as tree sap, and Guinevere is the insect who has landed in it. Her eyes are sap-weighted wings, unable to lift and bear her away, despite the voice calling with increasing desperation. She wonders idly, without much care, how long the amber will take to turn to stone; will she starve or suffocate first?

"Guinevere… my lady…"

A wet, rough texture covers her face, tickling her nose and making her sneeze. Guinevere manages to tilt her head, trying to dislodge the dratted covering.

"Mmph…"

Someone is shaking her shoulders, hands trembling even as they grip her. Why won't they go away? She squints, forcing her eyes to crack open.

A golden blur hovers over her, with flecks of green.

"…Wart?"

Her husband inhales sharply. "Guinevere." The washcloth he's been sponging her face with slips to the floor beside the tub.

Awareness grows. She's cold, and in distinctly cool water.

She's also naked.

"What ha'—" A yawn breaks her sentence. "—happened?" She tries to sit up, but mostly succeeds in sloshing the water around and reminding herself of the awareness of new, internal muscles, still sore.

Arturia doesn't answer, abruptly releasing her hold to rise to fetch a towel a few steps away, the linen sleep chemise damp from the puddles on the bathroom floor and clinging to her legs in spots. "You have been in there a fair few hours; you should probably get out before you catch a chill."

Flashes of memory return at the words. The banquet. Arturia's embarrassment. A stumbling explanation of a situation that is all the meddling Magus' fault. A fumbling under clothes, knees and elbows going all the wrong places – huh, so that's where the bruised ribs and shins came from. Surprising enjoyment, followed by anticipated pain and a horrified apology from her husband.

"I fell asleep in the tub?"

Arturia's hands are clenched tight on the cloth towel. "When I realized the light had changed and you hadn't returned, I came looking. But you wouldn't wake up…" The hand is shaking.

Ah. Guinevere is tempted to smack herself for missing the obvious. If there is one thing that frustrates Arturia, it is a situation in which she is useless. Any situation that cannot be solved with conquest, prowess at arms, or administrative ruling falls into this category, but when the inability to solve it has fatal consequences for someone… Well. Hasn't everyone wished at some point that they knew medicine and herbs enough to cure any ailment in front of them?

But smacking herself won't help. So instead, she gifts her husband with her very best smile, and sincerely says, "I'm sorry I worried you." This is the kind of soft diplomacy she is best at.

To her confusion, rather than relaxing as she expects, the reply causes Arturia to tense even more.

"…Wart? Can you help me stand?"

The nickname brings green eyes back to her. Arturia nods after a moment, draping the towel over her wife's shoulders and holding out her hand.

It takes a moment to find her footing, but soon she's standing on the rushes and wrapped in a drying sheet. Arturia has retracted her hand as soon as Guinevere was steady.

"Guinevere… are you sure you are all right? Last night…"

Guinevere laughs, a spontaneous burst of merriment at the flash of fumbling that memory invokes. "I promise, I'm fine. You didn't hurt me." A thought occurs, and she stops, worried. "Um… I didn't, um, accidently put my knee in the wrong place or something and bruise you, did I?" She does know that that's a vulnerable spot for all males. It's one of the reasons she thinks the pillion would be more comfortable for their gender, rather than for hers – how on _earth_ do they ride astride without, well, crushing themselves? It's an eternal mystery to her.

Arturia is shaking her head, however. "No. It just feels… strange. I suppose I am simply too aware of it." Eyes linger behind Guinevere, on the tub.

Guinevere is usually more confident in reading people than she is this morning, but envy isn't hard to guess at. "I'd best get dressed, then." Wincing at the small, mincing steps born from necessity that years of lessons in deportment could never produce, she begins to pick her way toward the bedroom, where she recalls laying out a clean shift and dress for the morning. "You're welcome to use the water, though it isn't very warm."

"…That sounds like a good idea, yes." Arturia's voice is dull in a way that goes beyond the bleary-eyed state of early rising, but given the chemise is being pulled over her head, the muffled sound is probably due to the cloth, Guinevere decides.

As she finally manages to reach her clothes chest, an odor of overpowering fragrance sweeps past her nose.

Frowning, Gwen looks around the room as she pulls her clean shift on. She didn't bring any flowers in here…

Once fully dressed in her sky-blue gown, she searches further. Eventually, she spots it, lying half-underneath one side of the bed. A posy. Closer examination identifies evening primrose, purple pansies, and wild tansy. What a strange combination. Puzzled, Gwen lays the bouquet on her nightstand. She'll ask her husband where 'he' got it later.

…

_To call Arturia relieved that she did not need to touch Gwen longer than absolutely necessary that morning, once she awoke her, would be lacking in describing the force of it._

_She made several attempts to wake her once she came back to herself, twice interrupted by her own nausea and heaving into the chamber pot._

'Don't try and fight, and she won't be hurt.'

_The moment Arturia recalled those words, she was rushing to Gwen's side, ignoring the nightshirt stinking with sweat and other things she didn't want to think about. Terrified that she had drowned, or that Morgan had lied, or hadn't lied, because she'd already hurt Gwen and didn't need to do anything else._

_Terrified that Gwen had…_

_No. She cannot think it. She will not think it. Gwen is not bleeding, not about the head, or the torso, or wrists, or anywhere that might be fatal. Nor is she is not bruised in any place that might indicate…_

_What does Arturia know? Nothing. For all the lectures on how to honorably treat a woman, be she noble-born, peasant, nun, or trollop, no one has told her how to tell if one has been treated wrongly, save if the woman confesses it herself._

_She can only pray that nothing happened to Gwen without Arturia hearing, while her wife was unconscious. And that she will not ask any more questions._

_Arturia scrubs as firmly as she can. Ignore the ache in her wrists, the burn in her thighs, the_ wrongness _between her legs. She dares not look at it. She tries to touch it as impersonally as possible, terrified it will do something else she does not want._

_It is another sign of her failure. All of it._

_A true man would not require this subterfuge. Could have refused any woman who was not his wife. Would have found a way to get rid of his sister before anything could happen. Would not have let – No._

_A King does not cry._

…

Ector has no idea what's making Kay twitchy as a cat's tail this morning. Yes, Gawain's unexpected request for knighthood requires frantic schedule shuffling for the morning – meaning Kay came close to unraveling his shirtsleeves yanking on the loose threads rather than his hair, not to mention ruining the whole garment with the ink stains spreading halfway up the elbows because he never remembers to roll them out of the way before starting the paperwork.

But schedule frustration doesn't explain his heir's frantic attempts to take over yet another duty that Ector selected for himself months ago.

It has to be either Kay or Ector waking the couple after their 'wedding night,' there's no question about that. No one else but Merlin still lives who's in on the secret – well, no one but the Queen Mother. And Igraine took herself off to a convent within an hour of Uther's funeral, scarcely waiting out the required mourning period before taking her vows as a nun, followed by a vow of silence a year later.

Ector can't blame her. He's never liked court, and Uther's court unfortunately tended to cultivate a particular sort of ruthlessness. Moreover, with the marriage bare of any official children, despite the persistent rumors of the well-known early pregnancy in the first year of their marriage, Uther left no male heirs. With each of Igraine's son-in-laws proclaiming _his_ right to the throne and boosting the claim through their wives' connections, it would have been all too easy for someone to marry Igraine, willingly or no, and then use that marriage to uphold their own claim. And after the scandal of her second marriage to the man whose forces, if not himself in person, had killed her first… well, he can't blame her for wanting to get away.

He doesn't know if she even knew the child she gave up without even a chance to nurse was still alive. If she was made aware, would it have changed her decision? Would she have held out hope to meet her child?

He shakes his head, barely remembering to correct his grip so as not to spill the tray. Now is _not_ the time to be thinking about this. It is his foster-child's wedding morning, and it is Ector's job to wake his youngest up. Loudly and cheerfully, and protocol be damned.

Ector hasn't had the proper opportunity to behave as a father to his Pendragon fosterling, or be addressed as such, since the first public drawing of Caliburn. Addressing him as 'Father' in public is impossible when the new monarch's paternity and legitimacy both are constantly being questioned without adding fuel to the fire.

There is no way he's going to miss the opportunity to properly tease her and congratulate her, at a moment when she can't hide behind the armor of formality.

Gawain's knighting just means he has to limit the time in the indulgence of embarrassment a father is entitled to bestow on his children.

Shifting the tray to one arm, Ector pauses before rapping on the door. Then, a sudden smile crosses his face – he sets down the tray on the floor to the side, straightens, gives a hard knock, and promptly covers his eyes, as in readiness for a game of hid and seek. "Your Majesties, it's Sir Ector. Are you awake?"

There's a pause, before he hears the door open a crack. It's Guinevere, dressed in the festive gown for the day, if the rustling is any indication. Appropriate for the original festivities scheduled, but a warmer wrap is needed for the knighting ceremony.

"My husband is finishing in the tub, my lord. If you'll wait a moment, I've passed through his hose and shirt." A pause. "I _am_ decent, I assure you, Sir Ector."

Ector grins. "Undoubtedly, my lady. But you'll need your crown and all the formality you can get for this morning – instead of the sporting festivities I believe you're dressed for."

"Formality? What formality?" Arturia's voice echoes from further into the room, stocking feet padding across the rushes on the floor before halting a few steps away. "Father, what are you doing here? And please don't walk blind; I don't want you to trip." The King's tone is mildly puzzled.

…Once more, Ector is forcibly reminded of 'Wart's' lack of time for games as a child, if they were not part of training. Surely other people would get the hint. But Arturia? He should just be grateful she didn't assume he trying to signal the presence of eavesdroppers.

"I've brought you breakfast," he answers, dropping his hands to his sides, his knees protesting as he bends to pick up the tray. "You need to finish dressing, though; court-formal regalia. And bring your sword." Straightening with a wince, he winks at the monarch. "Your agreement to knight Gawain this morning has upset the schedule a bit from what we planned, I fear, and you know how Kay reacts to schedule changes. Frenzied and grumbling, and only happy when the rest of us are equally as panicked and bustling about the matter." Stepping past the couple, he sets the tray on the writing desk. "Which means the rest of us have to make him calm down by dressing with correct formality and protocol."

A normal sibling might roll her eyes. But Arturia's natural reactions have never quite matched expectations. She usually doesn't reciprocate smiles except in battle, and generally cultivates a stoic mask that fewer and fewer surprises can dislodge as the years roll by. So Ector is not surprised when his fosterling just nods, after a long moment, and turns back to her wardrobe, pulling out her heaviest clean tunic with the Pendragon colors and emblem.

He _is_ surprised that she hasn't grabbed so much as a slice of bread first. He knows her appetite well. Perhaps she doesn't want to risk grease stains from her fingers on the tunic?

Guinevere, already dressed and with her hair braided as best she can manage alone, has begun nibbling at the bread, dipping it in the gruel. "I thought knighting ceremonies were formulaic? Why so much fuss?"

Ector chuckles. "It's not the ceremony that's the problem, once we found four knights willing to participate in the ceremony at the last minute." Now _that_ was a political balancing act; given Gawain's position as the heir to Orkney – and, as Ector and Kay had realized last night, a good candidate for heir apparent to Arthur, as the closest legitimate male relation by blood – one could not risk knights too low in station or bloodline that might be taken as an insult. Ector ended up picking the trusted men he knew had served Uther directly, and now he has to confirm those choices with Arturia.

"It's rearranging everything else that was scheduled for this morning. People prefer more notice if their services are no longer required – particularly if that means they may not be paid as expected." More than enough people lived hand-to-mouth frequently enough that the rescheduling could be devastating, particularly to those who had debts to pay.

A muffled curse from the clothes chest draws both their gazes; Arturia's tunic is half on, but one of the brooches has dropped from her fingers in her efforts to fasten it.

"Why is everything I own determined to slip from my fingers this morning?" The king winces at her own growl, dropping her voice as she fumbles with the buckle-clasp of her sword belt over her blue tunic. Finally, she manages it, and twists the remainder of the belt's tail into a knot around the rest. Kneeling, she curses again, more softly, as she attempts to fasten her shoes.

Ector shakes his head in amusement. If he needed any proof of her humanity, the fact that Arturia has finally managed to get a hangover is surely proof enough. He's seen her pull on her tunic, boots, armor and weapons in the half light before battle dawn often enough to know that this clumsiness is unheard of.

"Maybe it would help if you ate something?" Guinevere suggests, wiping her fingers clean on a napkin.

Arturia shakes her head, slowly moving to stand fully upright and straightening the shoulders of her tunic. "If I thought I could keep it down through the ceremony, maybe."

Ector shakes his head ruefully. "Maybe we should have cut you off from the wedding ale earlier in the evening." When the King turns to stare at him, confusion clouding green eyes, he shrugs. "Nausea, dizziness, and sound and light hurts? You're not exactly hiding what happened very well."

Arturia stares at him. "…What?" Her body is tensed to move, her eyes fixed on him tightly, wide and horrified.

"Don't worry," Ector chuckles, leaning back and closing his eyes, posture deliberately relaxed. "Hangovers happen to all of us." It's not as if it's anything to be embarrassed about, even if it _is_ a surprise; he's actually never seen Arturia drink to the point that she regrets it the next morning.

"A hangover… that's right," the King murmurs after a moment, so quietly that Ector barely perceives the echo.

"I did bring some tea for that, you know," he tries, careful not to push. His fosterling is stubborn when it comes to taking medicine that serves no purpose but to relieve pain.

The blonde visibly makes a slow attempt to swallow, her eyes flickering to the side table with last night's pitcher and goblets, before shaking her head. "Maybe later. When I can actually keep it down."

Fair enough. "Before you leave for the ceremony, then," Ector agrees peaceably, trusting her to know her own body best.

"Mmm." Giving up on her usual twist-and-braid bun with a scowl at her uncooperative fingers, Arturia snatches the hair ribbon and ties it back from her face; a fairly neat attempt, but nowhere near her usual standards. "How fares Gawain? Is all ready?"

Ector smiles. "His vigil has gone well, from sunset onward, and he should be fetched soon. And yes, all is ready, pending your approval of my choices for the other knights involved." It takes six knights, plus the candidate, to perform the ceremony in their respective roles; picking men suitable to the former royal heir of Orkney was a tricky business. "Do you wish me to go over the script?" Battlefield promotions are one thing; a fully planned knighting ceremony is new to Arturia. He thinks the question is worth asking in all due seriousness, particularly given her brain is still foggy with ale fumes.

"The knights involved, first; the script afterward, please."

"Very well. Lot, naturally, is serving as his son's sponsor." No knight could reach this ceremony without someone to vouch for him, and it saved them all trouble if Lot took the role, especially since he'd been the one to confirm Gawain's suitability when asked.

"Sir Lucan, your father's Captain of the Guard, has agreed to be the Knight of the Sword. Sir Caradoc the Elder will be Knight of the Belt. Sir Cleges will be the Knight of the Spurs, and Kay will be the Knight of the Chain." With the exception of Kay, all had served loyally under Uther, and were eager to serve his heir.

Lucan had been one of the first to swear himself and his younger brother, Bedivere, to the Pendragon's new heir, a claim of support that helped convince the doubters.

Cleges had openly welcomed them, once it was clear that Arturia's personal ambition was non-existant in her claim to the throne.

Caradoc had doubted Arturia's claim to both paternity and crown at first, but redeclared himself midway through the rebellion – his participation, in particular, was an excellent public display of loyalty.

Kay was… young, to take such a role. But no one could doubt his loyalty to his King.

"And you, of course, have the questioning of the knight, and the actual accolade with the sword. Speaking of which, where is it?"

Arturia smiles at that. "Clarent is right here, father." She pulls the blade from the back of the chest, securing its scabbard to her belt.

"You're not using Excalibur?" The Queen makes no attempt to hide her curiosity.

"Excalibur is for war, Gwen. Clarent has never and will never see battle. It is meant to be unused for anything but ceremonies like this. It is a sword of peace – and one of my dearest treasures." Arthur smiles fondly at the blade.

Ector coughs, not noticing the King's flinch at the noise. "Well, then. The script. Lot will approach you on your throne and recommend Gawain for knighthood, your Majesty. You will then summon the other knights of the court and ask if Gawain is fit. We will answer yes; I've investigated preliminarily and there won't be objections. Once that happens, order Gawain led before you…" He continues into the details of the sermon for a few minutes before trailing off; the cloudiness is back in the green eyes. "If you're having trouble concentrating, I can act as a prompter, sire."

Blue-clad shoulders slump. "I… I suppose. I'm certain I can remember, but… there's no harm in it."

Clasping her cloak, the blonde places her crown on her head, and adjusts Clarent on her belt. "If you're ready, Gwen –"

Her hand knocks against the nightstand, causing something to fall. Reflexively, the King catches it. Brings it back into view, blinks.

"Where did-?"

It's a small posy, the size an unskilled village boy with little time might collect for his sweetheart. But it's arranged well, even to Ector's unskilled eye.

Gwen sighs. "It was very sweet of you to bring them, Arthur. I should put them somewhere more safe, I suppose."

"Bring- What? Gwen, you think I did this?" Arturia shakes her head, brining the bouquet closer to her eyes. "I haven't left the rooms since last… night…"

…

_Her blood halts._

_Or is it that her pulse, as loud as a dragon's breath, but fast as the heart as a cat-cornered mouse, is deafening her?_

_That scent…_

Dark green eyes. Raven hair, impossibly choking in its fragrance. A pressure on my hips, rhythmic as the loom's shuttle.

'You stole the throne from me, **_sister dear_**.'

_No!_

…

"What? But, I found it beside the bed. I thought it was from you…" Gwen trails off.

Arturia is staring at the bouquet, her eyes shadowed by her hair, knuckles white on the stems.

"…Sire?" Ector steps forward, hesitantly. He doesn't like this. A bouquet, and neither husband or wife recognizes it? Has someone got into the room after all?

He has to get them to the ceremony on time. But his other job is to spill a bit of wine on the sheets – so the laundresses make gossip on the king's virility, without remarking on the lack of sweat and other fluids staining what _should_ be rumpled sheets.

Wine stains can cover up so many other stains and odors, after all. Or the lack thereof.

At his touch on her arm, Arturia starts, dropping the flowers abruptly enough that Ector's half-tempted to check for a hot coal among the stems she clutched.

"We'll be late for the ceremony." The words are toneless, devoid of temperature or expression. A statement of facts with no opinion attached.

Ector's eyes flicker to Arturia's face. But all that he finds is the stoic, uncaring face that is the mask of King Arthur Pendragon.

"The next part of the ceremony is in the throne room, you said?"

"I… yes, sire?" It shouldn't come out as a question. He doesn't mean it to come out as a question.

"Then we should not make the court stay on our leisure. My lady?" The King strides past him, pulling gloves from a pocket and slipping them on, before offering an arm to the Queen.

Gwen stares at it in puzzlement for a moment, before flushing and taking it.

"Is… everything all right? Sire?" Ector is certain he's missing something. Something critical.

Because his gut hasn't roiled in this manner since the morning that Uther's court rose, and found that the Duke of Cornwall had departed overnight, with his full household, without asking leave of the King – and Uther's reply to the disrespect was a pronunciation of treason and a declaration of war.

The King looks back over one shoulder. "Everything is fine, Sir Ector. Just a hangover."

He cannot contradict the King.

He bows, and lets them leave the room.

He has one last job to do.

Pulling his hip flask from his belt, Ector briefly pulls back the sheet and scatters a few drops of wine in the middle, not paying attention to the wrinkles already there before flicking the sheet back in place. Carefully, mindful of his King's reactions, he pulls a kerchief free from one pocket, slips on his hunting gloves from another pocket, and wraps the posy in it, taking care not to touch it with his skin.

He doesn't know what it is. Maybe Kay will.

But he's not taking chances in the meantime.

…

A tap on his shoulder rouses the youth to prickles in his knees and calves. His legs have fallen asleep, he realizes, as he turns toward the old priest behind him. Unsurprising, given he's knelt all night at the altar.

"The King summons you, my son." The old man's voice is soft, yet impossible to miss in the silent chapel.

Gawain nods, quietly. "Thank you, Father."

It takes him a moment to get from his knees to his feet, since he can't lean on the altar, and won't lean on the priest. But he manages it.

With four squires escorting him, Gawain walks forward, recounting to himself the aspects of the ceremony in an effort to keep his breath steady.

_The night of the vigil, when I am instructed in the oaths and vows by elder knights, is complete. I know what I must swear, and what each of my vows requires._

_My clothes. A white shirt – hope for the purity of my future. A scarlet surcoat – the blood I will shed in the service of God, my King, and my honor. Black hose and shoes – the earth from which we came, the death I must face fearlessly. 'For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.'_

_My oath, to swear before God and King both, and then to keep it ever more._

It takes him a moment to realize that his escort has reached the hall.

No laugher and spilled wine and food and music today. The court is solemn as its King, who sits with hands braced on the sheathed sword on his lap. His Queen sits beside him, fair and grave, her auburn braids neat, gowned in sky blue to match the new day. But while her smile is somewhat welcoming, the King's face is opaque and serious as the steel in his hands, and his eyes are far away, beyond Gawain.

A moment later, the King blinks, his gaze refocusing on Gawain.

Gawain kneels, careful not to let his legs give out from under him. What greater respect can he offer the King than responding with equal seriousness?

"Gawain of Orkney, you have been summoned. Lot of Orkney declares you fit for knighthood, and the Order of Chivalry agrees that you are worthy."

It's still strange to hear anyone refer to his father without his title, but Gawain knows he would rather have a living father who was not a King than a dead King for a father. The loss of his own title as crown prince of Orkney is a small matter to him; he is still his father's heir, no matter what titles that inheritance gives him.

Many Kings would have sought to permanently crush the rebellion by executing the leaders. Arthur has only been responsible for the rebel leaders who died in battle. For who lived, he asked them to bend the knee and swear their fealty. Those who would do neither were asked to sign their lands and titles over to their heirs before they were peaceably exiled.

Gawain could have simply limited himself to that oath of loyalty. But… his father is alive. His mother is alive. All his little brothers are alive. And he cannot stop remembering Badon Hill.

He is his father's heir by birth, unless he is disinherited. But knighthood must be earned.

And he must have earned it, or this wouldn't be happening.

Right?

"Let the knights of the ceremony approach, and let the candidate pay them the respect of a worthy student to a master." It's Sir Ector who speaks now, calling the men forward.

Four knights approach, vaguely familiar from the previous night of instruction. Each has spoken to him in private, and each will only give a summary of their instruction to him from the last few hours.

Sir Lucan approaches first. The Captain of the Guard for Uther Pendragon, he has returned to his old position for the late ruler's son, though rumor has it he's training a replacement. In his arms he carries Gawain's sword.

Gawain instinctively watches it. It is the only blade in the room not currently sheathed, the scabbard still buckled to the belt.

"The sword's significance," Sir Lucan begins, "lies in the fact that it slays and wounds with both edges, and its point also stabs." This is a man who has actively used it for such in his king's defense, and his word ring with the confidence of steel. "The sword is the knight's noblest weapon, and he too should serve in three ways." With his left hand, Lucan slowly traces the edges of the blade.

"He should defend the church and the kingdom, killing and wounding those who oppose it as do the two edges of a sword." Stern eyes meet Gawain's, and the young man gulps, remembering Badon Hill. He understands this obligation well.

"He should also defend the poor and weak against the powerful influence of the rich." This matter is one Lucan has paid particular attention to – as a ruler of a chain of islands, exploitation of the fisher folk is a matter Gawain is well aware of. But what is to follow is more important.

"And just as a sword pierces whatever it touches, likewise a knight should pierce all heretics and villains, attacking them mercilessly wherever he may find them." In other words, this is not a position to gain based on your family; knighthood must be earned, and even after this ceremony, Gawain must continue to earn it. No matter who he sees at fault, even if it is his own family, he must not change his judgment if they commit a crime.

He nods, after a moment of silence, unsure why Lucan has paused.

"The pommel symbolizes the world, for a knight is obliged to defend his king." Lucan has begun to trace with his right hand instead, fingers dancing over the end of the hilt, before moving down to where it joins the blade. "The guard symbolizes the cross, on which Our Redeemer died to preserve mankind, and every true knight should do likewise, braving death to preserve his brethren. Should he perish in the attempt, his soul will surely go to heaven." He almost seems to be rushing in his words. Gawain isn't sure why.

Then Lucan steps away, sword still in hand, and the second knight approaches.

Caradoc the Elder. Another former member of Uther's court, who initially disbelieved Arthur's claim to the throne, siding with Lot – only to change his mind when it seemed the rebels might still win, and switching to Arthur's camp halfway through the war. Gawain honestly isn't sure how to feel about the man.

Particularly since he heard the rumor of Caradoc's response to discovering his wife's twenty-year affair with a magician. He only hopes Caradoc the Younger is coping with his newly discovered status as a bastard, and that the rumor that Caradoc the Elder limited his wrath to the unfaithful wife and her lover is correct. If the rumor got anything right about the nature of the punishment, Caradoc is someone who takes 'eye for an eye' _very_ literally.

"The sword belt," Caradoc says, grey eyes cold as granite as he strokes his fingers over it, curled around the scabbard, "means that, just as a knight wears his sword girded to his body, so he himself should be girded with chastity." He spent a good hour last night telling Gawain what that meant: mental and emotional fidelity to one lover, with physical chastity before marriage, and physical faithfulness to a wife alone after he was married.

"Its color is white," Caradoc continues, "signifying _purity_ and _truth_." Gawain scarcely has time to nod before the old knight steps back, eyes bright with zealotry.

Sir Cleges is creaking with age. He was old when Uther reigned, and he is old now – too old, really, to be doing this.

He is also universally respected – with good reason. For Sir Cleges is a man who was granted a miracle.

"A knight's golden spurs," Cleges says, one hand on his staff, the other holding the spurs, "symbolize many things, for by placing the precious metal near his feet, he shows his disdain for worldly things, and his duty to commit no evil that might disgrace his order." His eyes twinkle brightly in remembrance, and Gawain is hard pressed not to grin. He's heard Cleges' story from both his parents often, but last night is the first time he met the man famed for the miracle of 'midwinter cherries' he brought to Uther Pendragon.

"His spurs are sharpened to goad his steed, just as a knight should goad the people to virtue." It goes unsaid that Cleges prefers to goad virtue by setting a good example.

"But," Cleges continues, the smile on his face warm and dangerous as a blaze too close, "a virtuous knight should also make himself feared by the wicked."

Uther did indeed appreciate the cherries, and offered Cleges a reward of his choice.

What Cleges did with that choice has secured him in memory as a knight as clever as he was kind, and who for all his kindness would not bow to bullies.

Uther had believed Cleges dead from his lack of contact over the years, and was overjoyed to find otherwise. He granted the knight the additional gift of a castle, and many riches, as well as stewardship over the royal household – a position Cleges has kept, even in the King's absence, until Arthur's arrival allowed him to retire.

Gawain nods, remembering, and Cleges retreats, leaning on his staff.

Now the final knight appears. Sir Kay, bearing a gold chain, twisting it in his hands. Young, to hold such a position in the ceremony, especially alongside such graybeards as Cleges and Caradoc.

"The golden chain of a knight," Kay begins, "symbolizes the chain of fealty that binds him to his King." Once Arthur's knight-master, Kay now serves his foster brother willingly and faithfully, it is said, even if Gawain doesn't understand how the seneschal can get away with ribbing both King and entire court in public. But there's no hint of Kay's crabbed humor now. If anything, the man looks almost distracted; his eyes keep flitting toward the throne.

"The chain is made of the purest of all metals, gold," Kay continues, lifting it into Gawain's view, "and is made without end – symbolizing the pure and eternal nature of the bond of fealty."

An unending loop. Gawain knows it well.

He nods, and Kay steps back, leaving Gawain to face the King.

It takes a moment for the King to rise, and the words that come from Arthur's mouth are thoughtful and slow, as if creating the question rather than following ritual.

"For what purpose do you wish to join the order of knights?" Green eyes track his, and Gawain swallows, his mouth dry. Surely these eyes can see all his secrets. "If to be rich, to take your ease, and be held in honor without doing honor to knighthood – you are unworthy of it." The King's eyes flicker away, then back.

Gawain smiles, and speaks the truth. "I desire to be a knight, that I might serve my God and my King to the best of my abilities."

"…So be it. Dress and arm him."

Behind Gawain, his mother moves, her dress black and gold – the house colors of Orkney.

Drawing the scarlet surcoat of ritual over his head, she replaces it with a blue tunic, to match Kay's – for a knight is the king's servant.

One by one, the knights step forward. Kay secures the chain, Cliges fits the spurs to his boots, Cador tightens the swordbelt, and Lucan slips the sword into its scabbard.

Now it's the King's turn.

Clarent slides from its scabbard, and extends into the air.

One careful tap on the left shoulder. "In the name of God, St Michael and St George." One careful tap on the right. "I, Arthur, King of Britain, dub thee a knight." One on the head. "Swear thy oath."

Truly the King's grave approach is something to emulate.

Gawain breaths out, and begins. "Thus do I, Gawain of Orkney, son of Lot of Orkney, swear to King Arthur: at all times, to speak the truth; to keep faith with my oaths; to maintain the right and uphold the law; to serve the welfare of all, and defend the weak and defenseless; to keep loyalty and service to my King and country; to practice courtesy; to live by honor and for glory, despising pecuniary reward; to eschew unfairness, meanness and deceit, wherever I may cross it; to respect the honor of women; to refrain from the wanton giving of offense; to guard the honor of fellow knights; to never do outrage or murder, and always flee treason; also, by no means to be cruel, but to give mercy to him who asks it. Thus do I swear, and so will I act in accordance of my oath."

To himself, Gawain adds a silent oath: to be just as vigilant and serious as the King.

"…Rise, Sir Gawain, as a member of the Round Table."

…

_Drawing that sword that has never shed blood, remembering the words for the ceremony – it's the most difficult thing she's ever done._

_Where was this strength to hold the blade last night? When she needed it?_

_Will it disappear again? Will she drop the sword and cut him?_

_She is terrified and relieved and disgusted with herself all over again when it's over and she can put Clarent back in the scabbard._

_She watches his lips move, but does not hear his oath._

_She waits for them to still, then tells him to rise._

_It's over. Gawain is Sir Gawain, and the King has a new knight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bouquet: I know the language of flowers wasn't fully invented and written out until Victorian times, but Shakespeare's use of flowers with meanings suggests it was somewhat in practice long before that. Evening primrose stands for inconstancy, purple pansy translates as 'you occupy my thoughts', and wild tansy translates as 'I declare against you.' Yes, it's from Morgan, and yes, I mean it to sound like a stalker's present. (Good thing Arturia doesn't know flower meanings – she's traumatized enough by the combination matching Morgan's perfume. It's the one saving grace she's getting today.)
> 
> The Knighting Ceremony: Taken from combined sources on a 14th-century English knighting ceremony. (Source script can be found at muckley.us/Knighting.pdf) Gawain's oath is the result of combining and distilling the knight's oath given in 'The Song of Roland' with oaths from several Arthurian works and adaptations – the final product is mine. The knights involved are all from the original myth.
> 
> Sir Lucan: Lucan the Butler, Bedivere's older brother, one of two survivors of Camlann, he died trying to assist his king off the battlefield afterwards. In the myth, he serves as Arthur's Butler and Wine Steward, as he will eventually in this story. However, since FSN positions Bedivere as Captain of the Guard by the time of Camlann, I thought it would be interesting to have an older brother in the position first that he could look up to – and that the Captain of the Guard would be the best person to deliver the sermon on the sword.  
> My version of Lucan is in his early thirties at this point, with Bedivere about seven years younger and in his mid-twenties. He would have become Uther's Captain of the Guard for perhaps the last two years of his reign, and was considered fairly young to hold the position. A lower class noble, but not one who would insult Gawain's standing with his participation.
> 
> Caradoc the Elder: a knight of Uther's court, he sided with the rebels initially before switching allegiance to Arthur when he became more certain of the young king's claim. Victim of a years-long enchantment by the sorcerer Eliavres, who Caradoc's wife Ysave had an affair with, causing Caradoc to mistake various farm animals for his wife. Caradoc the Elder unknowingly raised the product of the affaire as his own son, Caradoc the Younger. The truth would only be discovered when said son reached adulthood. Together, the Elder and Younger Caradoc exact humiliating vengeance upon Eliavres, involving various farm animals. The offender is locked away from his mistress Ysave. (Please note that neither author nor Gawain condones this vengeance form.)
> 
> Cleges: "Sir Cleges became poor through his generosity. He prayed that God would spare him and his wife and children. He finds cherries ripening in his yard although it is Christmas, and sets out to bring them to Uther Pendragon in hopes of a reward. To admit him, the porter, the usher, and the steward all demand a third part of his reward. The king appreciates the cherries. Sir Cleges demands twelve blows as his reward and explains about the servants. Uther has him give them each four blows and then gives him a castle and many other gifts so that he and his family can live in comfort." Perfect guy to speak of disdain for worldly things, goading people to virtue, and making the wicked fear him, wouldn't you agree?
> 
> Kay: Notable for his youth, which would normally disqualify him for this sort of thing. However, with time running short, and politically acceptable choices for knighting an ex-crown prince in even shorter supply, he was an acceptable pick.


	7. VI: At All Times To Speak The Truth II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kay knows something is wrong.
> 
> Archer finds out that he has failed in the worst way possible, and can only try to mitigate the damage.
> 
> Arturia comes to a conclusion -- the same conclusion she always has, with a few more memories to back it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is Part two of the original Chapter 5, as promised.
> 
> Due to real life circumstances, my beta has been limited in her ability to look over and help me polish this chapter, except for Kay's section and pieces of Archer's. As such, I have done as best an editing job as I can, but it may be a little rough in spots and I may go back and rework a few points in the coming weeks.
> 
> For those of you who seek timeline changes, and know the original myths… it begins.
> 
> Post chapter notes (Moved here for lack of space reasons)  
> Rape Symptoms for Acute Stage and beyond: Long term signs and symptoms of someone who has been sexually assaulted or raped tend to include depression, guilt, anger, and anxiety. Behaviorally, the victim of sexual violence might become aggressive, abuse substances, or break rules, like attending work or school. The victim might also have sleeping or eating problems, withdraw from relationships, and have sexual problems.
> 
> If left untreated, the physical and psychological effects of sexual assault and rape can be devastating, sometimes even deadly. Causes of death as the result of sexual violence include suicide, murder, and infection with the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV). Murder of sexual assault and rape victims may be perpetrated by the rapist or as part of an honor killing by family members of the victim. A victim of a rape or other sexual assault might become pregnant as a result of the rape. He or she could develop nightmares, flashbacks, changes in their sleep and appetite, or develop full-blown emotional problems, including posttraumatic stress disorder, depression, or substance abuse. Individuals who have experienced sexual assault are at risk for other day-to-day problems, including arguing with family members and having problems at work.
> 
> Acute stage symptoms include  
> Mentally/Emotionally: disorganized thoughts, confusion, fear, denial, shock  
> Physically: shaking/trembling, racing heart, tight muscles, rapid breathing, numbness  
> Also: disruption in sleep and eating patterns  
> \- From the outside, may appear dazed, numb, and unresponsive  
> Other behaviors: diminished alertness; numbness; dulled sensory, affective and memory functions; vomiting/nausea; paralyzing anxiety; pronounced internal tremor; obsession to wash or clean themselves; hysteria, confusion, and crying; bewilderment; acute sensitivity to the reaction of other people.  
> Once past the Acute Stage, coping behaviors may include:  
> Explanation (identifying a reason why the rape occurred), minimization (telling oneself that the rape was not really so terrifying), suppression (making a conscious effort to avoid thinking about the rape), action (keeping busy changing jobs, or moving), and stress reduction (using specific techniques such as meditation). Maladaptive coping patterns included decreased activity (not going out of the house), withdrawal from people, and substance abuse. (p. 1226, as cited in Meyer & Taylor, 1986)  
> (Note: One of the most disturbing discoveries while researching this topic was how many symptoms of RTS or date rape drugs overlap with the standard symptoms of a hangover. And in answer to the anonymous questioner, studies have found that both male and female victims exhibit symptoms of RTS, the psychological trauma.)

There have been many times when Kay has wished to strangle, stab, or otherwise inflict mortal harm upon that infernal Magus over the years. And he maintains that he has always had a good reason for the moments he's actually attempted it.

First there's the offense of invading the dreams of a child and switching sleep and recovery for lesson time.

Then the magus tricked Kay into a magically-enforced vow to keep his little si— s—  _sibling's_  secret. Now Kay can only think the truth in his thoughts, never able to speak it aloud.

And there was the debacle of last night, after the Orkney lad – who  _is_ a lad, in ways Kay knows he hasn't been since before he was Gawain's age, and in a way that a certain monarch never got the chance to be, and the better part of that fault lies with the damn Magus – completely destroyed the carefully planned schedule that Kay had spent three months organizing. All because the boy's request could not be refused without a political mess erupting. And if the lad wasn't aware of that, his father certainly was.

Gawain's knighting ceremony thankfully only threw off this morning's schedule, but that's still enough of a problem that Kay wishes to discuss the changes he's had to make with Arturia before the day goes any further. Especially since much of it is cutting into the blocks of free time he'd initially planned for her to escape the festivities at certain points.

The midday repast is over, now, and what he saw there would be enough to worry him even without his father's recount of the events of the morning wake-up. Arturia  _never_  skips a meal. She can't, not with all the training she does. And she always puts away everything on her plate, and goes for second helpings of both food and drink alike, except for the occasions in the past year when they've been on battle rations and she confined herself to the same portions as her soldiers.

He might be able to excuse this morning if she truly was as nauseous as both she and Gwen had claimed. But now he's seen her at lunch, when she  _should_  be past the worst effects, and she's not even been picking at her meal, aside from a single taste of each item Guinevere had chosen to sample. Otherwise, she's simply pushed her food around her plate with her knife, and kept an eye on Gwen.

That would be enough to worry Kay even without the story of the bouquet, and her reaction to it. The posy in question, still wrapped in his father's kerchief and now locked away in a box intended to hold household funds, doesn't  _seem_  harmful, but he trusts Arturia's instincts. If she dropped it like a hot coal, locking it away as a threat is a good idea for the moment.

Though he's questioned the guards and chambermaids thoroughly, none of them can remember anything about a bouquet in the chamber beforehand, nor either King or Queen carrying one in. And though they've checked the chambers, nothing more is out of place, so Kay's had to give it up as a bad job.

So his only hope of figuring things out lies with Arturia herself. And thanks to the schedule changes, he has a reason to do it.

King and Queen have settled themselves in the stands to watch the afternoon's entertainment, the archery contest.

Perfect.

"My lord the King, my lady the Queen." He bows and watches Arturia's eyes jump to him, while Guinevere acknowledges him with a graceful, well-mannered nod. "Forgive me for the interruption, sire, but there is a matter with the schedule requiring your attention."

The King holds her gaze, then nods in silent acknowledgement.

He waits a moment for her to verbally confirm the formalities and offer him permission to speak.

Nothing. She's just staring at him, waiting.

Shrugging, he pulls the parchment notes from his belt pouch for reference. "To begin with, that luncheon after the knighting had to be put together from food the cooks had intended for tomorrow night, in order to be suitably impressive – so we're scrambling for our suppliers. Also, I can't just dismiss the royal audience of grievances we had planned for tomorrow morning, but Lot has been hinting at a chance to show off arms, besides the contest –" Kay waves a hand at the bowmen below, taking turns at the target. "—and I'm not sure where we can squeeze that in at this last minute notice. In fact, we can't, not at what it would cost. So either you or the Queen needs to flatter Gawain into competing in the contests of arms we already have set up for the week, if you'd be so kind, sire –"

One of the reasons Kay has become so good at these arguments over the years is that, for all her talents at tactics, and her cool head when choosing where to spend the lives of her men and horses, his foster-sister is awful at persuading others to be legally parted from their money and goods – that is, taxes and stubborn people. And judiciary issues, which she tends to consult him on to be sure that all the appropriate laws are applied, though that's less frequent as she becomes more confident. Technically, the King only judges on truly serious crimes such as adultery, a feud gone out of hand, or concerning new laws she's written in person. But Arturia prefers handling common crimes as well, and she'll always consult Kay if the case involves money.

"—Sir Lucan told me that crime stops for no one, and he's right; there were a couple drunken brawls in the commoner celebrations last night, and at least one brought a knife into it; I'm still waiting on the physician for how bad it is, but that's added to the court docket. Also, we've finally caught the half-wits who thought stealing some of the grain while it was being transported to the castle would be wise—"

Money itself is tricky, since Kay is still attempting to reestablish a coinage system. The results speak for themselves, even if the coin is only beginning to spread to wide acceptance slowly, from Camelot to their allies and then to the rest of the coast. It's yet to catch on in the lands north of Hadrian's Wall, and Cornwall and some parts of Wales are still mistrustful of whether the coin will  _stay_  valuable, but it's working. The fact that some forgers found it worthwhile to try making their  _own_  coin again, and are currently sitting in the gaol for it, is enough proof of that in Kay's eyes – nobody's caught a money forger in fifty years, because nobody was bothering to commit the crime when coin wasn't being regularly reissued.

"—And I've got a couple forgers sitting in the cells, now, but it  _can't_  wait till the end of the week, even if it will keep itself for a few hours, because it's  _counterfeit_ specifically that they're guilty of. So do you want to spend those hours I'd planned for you to have to yourself and that paperwork you love so much before supper spent judging those cases instead, or shall I shift them to the morning audience?"

"… I thought the morning audience was Tuesday?"

Unfortunately, while he has long practice in unconsciously but accurately rambling about money difficulties in an attempt to either make someone pay attention or give in to what he wants so that he'll  _go away_ , Kay tends to distract himself doing it. That's probably why it takes him until then to realize that Arturia is getting mixed up on the days and hours both, and he's absently corrected her three times without realizing it before this.

"Arthur." He's not going to yell; he knows this many people for this many hours, and all of it a political show, are a bit of a strain on her. She needs time to plan appropriate responses ahead. And he has been throwing a very complicated schedule at her, a schedule that he needs his notes to keep straight even now, if only because people keep altering it. "Today is Tuesday. You married yesterday, and that was a Monday. Today is Tuesday. The audience is Wednesday."

She stares again.

"…What's the crime again?"

He normally wouldn't be this annoyed over petty details. But this is a little beyond the pale. He's in public, so he can't yell at her. So Sir Kay takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and lifts his gaze to meet his king's.

"I hate to ask this, my lord King, but did you even—"  _'look at the schedule?'_  is what he intends to ask.

Except that's when he actually  _sees_  her.

It's not only that Arturia isn't looking at him. He could understand if she'd gotten distracted by the shooting contest. But she's not even watching the archers. Guinevere has been cheering at appropriate intervals, unaware of her 'husband's' distraction, but the King isn't watching her either. Instead, her eyes are flickering all over the place, but staying within the audience stands.

She wasn't listening to begin with, he realizes. The hell? Arturia  _always_  pays attention when someone is talking to her; she considers it the height of disrespect to do otherwise.

Well, there's a quick way to check if she's doing it on purpose. And as an older brother, he's fully authorized to use it.

Kay moves his hand next to her ear – and snaps his fingers.

…

_Everything is fine._

_It was a hangover. That's all. Happens to everybody._

_Everything is fine._

_That person looked like Gwen, sounded like Gwen. Could she look like someone else, besides Gwen? Is she watching now?_

_Arturia scans the crowd. Watching every person, male or female, noble or commoner. Are they who they seem?_

_She doesn't know how trustworthy her own eyes are now. So she strains them further._

_The sound going off next to her head is sharp as a stone cracked like a roasted chestnut._

_Her body jerks upright, halfway out of her seat, before she registers Kay's presence._

…

"Arthur!" He can't quite keep the tension from his voice, but manages to alter his face to indignation in time to fool a few curious courtiers seated nearby.

If he had any doubts that something was truly out of place in the situation, this would silence them.

"What's wrong?"

He spent their entire childhood, plus the length of time she served as his squire, trying to make her jump like that. Nothing nasty, just pranks and prodding to try and get her to react like a human – because, quite frankly, he worried that she didn't know where to draw the line of 'unforgivable'. But nothing worked – scary stories, spiders, thunder, illness, or anything else. He ended up scaring himself with a few attempts, but never her.

"Nothing's wrong, Kay. Now, if we're finished with the scheduling, is there something else you wanted?"

She sits back in her seat as if nothing happened, facing forward toward the contest.

Kay blinks.

"…I'm pretty sure I'd remember finishing the scheduling conversation, sire. Particularly since you've yet to answer a single one of my questions." He sighs, pinching his nose. He doesn't want to believe it, he has never seen it happen, he didn't think it was possible, but… "How much wedding ale did you drink, my lord?"

Since this is Arturia, he expects a confident answer of some large number. Maybe over fifteen tankards, and certainly over eight, though how she manages to put away that much without a single slurred word is beyond him, honestly.

The silence stretches.

"…My lord?"

No answer. Kay bends to get a better look at her.

Arturia is frozen in her seat, face remarkably paler than normal, hands clenched around the armrests of her seat, and the muscle in her jaw twitching.

She's shaken, visibly, which is more so than Kay ever remembers seeing her, and panic quickly rises in her brother's chest.

"Arthur—" Before he can stop himself, his hand shoots out and clasps her shoulder, an action bordering reflexive in nature.

Obviously, a mistake. If Kay weren't already leaning in to whisper in her ear, he would have missed the subtle hitch in her breath. The muscles of her shoulder tense and quiver underneath his hand.

That's when Kay realizes what he should have at the beginning of the conversation, what he should have picked up on at the ceremony, what he should have understood when he heard about the bouquet.

This isn't a hangover.

It never was.

He doesn't know what is going on, but something is very, very wrong with his sister.

He's vaguely aware of reassuring Guinevere, who somehow has only now noticed how pale the King has gone – seriously, what kind of friend is this girl? – that everything's alright, he just needs to talk with his 'brother' and they can't hear each other over the crowd . A blatant lie; the King has the keenest hearing Kay knows, but he doesn't want anyone to panic or start rumors about the King's health. He tells the Queen to stay and play Master of Ceremonies. Meanwhile, he pulls Arturia to her feet, and quietly guides her out of the stands, glaring at the guards until they get the hint and stay with the Queen.

He pulls his sister into the first private room he can find indoors, thankful it has a thick door and thicker walls. Shutting the door, he lets go, and steps back. Not touching her. Leaving enough space to swing a sword if necessary.

"Arturia." His voice is clear, but not too loud. He's vaguely aware that it's the voice he'd use to handle a skittish horse, which should be a lot funnier than it feels at the moment. "Wart. What's wrong?"

It takes a few repeats before he sees her registering his presence. He doesn't move from his relaxed position by the wall, careful not to get between her and the door.

"Wart." He hasn't called her that since their father knighted her. Over a year and a half ago, now.

"…Kay?"

He doesn't sigh with relief, but it's a close thing. "Back with me? Good."

"…You wanted to talk about scheduling?"

Oh, this is definitely Arturia. No one else can exasperate him so thoroughly and make him honestly want to cry at the same time.

"Scheduling can wait. What's wrong, Wart?"

She shakes her head. "Why do you keep asking that? Nothing's wrong—"

"Horse-shit, Wart. I'm your brother. It's not worth being polite to lie to me. I know you too well, and you're bad at lying anyway. What. Is. Wrong?" He's being too pushy, and he knows it, but he's worried. This is his baby sister, blood or no, raised alongside him. The one he's never been strong or skilled enough to protect from a world that she can't entirely make sense of.

"Nothing. I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention."

She's being stubborn. Another angle, then. "Fine. What's the 'nothing' that had you so distracted?"

"…I was watching for Farran; I'm curious if he'll accept my invitation to compete."

Her fibbing attempts would be adorable if the situation weren't so serious. Kay's tempted to tell her so, but he'd have to let this go, and he won't do that. Better to cut off her attempt at distraction, preferably without calling her on another lie, or she won't trust him to believe any truth she might offer.

"I have no idea why you even invited  _him_ ," he grumbles under his breath, going along with the story for the moment. He meant to warn her about this anyway. "Well, I'm sorry to be the breaker of bad news." And he is. Really. He knows she's having a rotten day, even if she won't tell him why, and he doesn't want to crush the bright spot she's obviously been holding out for – there's enough truth in the fib to tell that. "But he's not coming."

"How do you know that?" Arturia pounces like the lion he tried and failed to carve for her years ago.

Kay gives her the driest look he's ever practiced in front of a mirror, exclusively for dealing with these situations. "I'm your seneschal, remember? I checked over the registration before the contest started. Either he arrived too late to sign up, or he never planned to come after all. And he wasn't among the latecomers. I asked the clerks."

"Oh… I see…" She frowns, and looks off to the side sadly. "Did I not issue the invitation correctly? I thought I was clear that I hoped to see him…"

If he hadn't felt her trembling as she struggled to contain her own reaction earlier, Kay would be tempted to think that this is another bout of depression over Arturia's awareness of her lack of social skills. It happens fairly regularly, though she's gotten a lot better at hiding them over the years, increasingly certain that she cannot and never will understand people. But he knows better than to dismiss the situation as such.

Damn it. He's supposed to be fixing this. How is he managing to break her even more?

"…or maybe he just didn't want to come…"

Archer Farran. That's another person he doesn't particularly like. The smith treats no one with the respect they're due, not even Arturia, even when he realized he spoke to the king. Asking for the bill to her face, refusing to apologize for anything – if it had been anyone else, Kay would have had the culprit clapped in the stocks multiple times for such behavior.

But Farran gets away with it. Because, for reasons Kay cannot understand, Arturia  _likes_  the man. She's comfortable enough to banter with him, even try to tease him. It's Arturia, so it didn't quite work, but the fact that she was comfortable enough to try still stuns Kay.

It takes years for Arturia to trust people, usually, to the point that she doesn't bother to keep a hand free for her weapon. She watched Kay for years before she was willing to drop the formalities, comfortable to act like herself and not stand on politeness, even if that meant that he'd think she was weird. Gwen took multiple letter exchanges, all of them frank conversations that explained points of society and class and daily interactions with other people, topics that Kay hadn't even known his sister had questions about, before Arturia raised the possibility of trusting her with the secret.

But Farran broke down her barriers in the course of three hours, during which he was the only one allowed to speak.

Kay would give up control of the tax accounts to another person for  _three months_ , with a cheerful smile, if he had the chance to go back in time and listen to that conversation. Because whatever happened then, the result was that the smith made such an impression that Arturia began actively sneaking out and seeking him, to the point of pestering. And though Faran pretends to grumble about it, he does so in a way that makes it clear even to Arturia that it's all for show. And no matter what questions she asks him, he answers without batting an eye – with the exception of yesterday, and she was  _trying_  to startle him then, Kay's certain.

They have conversations that are startlingly intimate in their depth and subject, and they have them in front of Kay, since he's started tagging along. They probably discuss subjects and memories even more personal to them both when Kay isn't there, if Arturia was willing to ask him how to handle a relationship.

Farran's shockingly intelligent, too; some of the answers he's given her go well over Kay's head, particularly in ethical areas that he's never even considered. And he's fixed things Kay would have thought beyond repair. Hell, Kay wouldn't be surprised if the man could read and write, though he's no idea where the smith might have learned.

Ector has shared his suspicions that Farran also spent time as a soldier – perhaps 'Farran' was once his first name, rather than a family name, and 'Archer' was his profession. And having seen the quality of the bow that hangs on the wall, beyond where the fire's heat can warp it, Kay has to admit that it could be true.

He doesn't like thinking of Farran too long, though. He doesn't like the man. Not as much as he hates that damn Magus, but then, he doesn't hate anyone as much as he hates Merlin.

It's stupid to think about why he dislikes Farran anyway. Really, it's almost as if she trusts  _Farran_  more than she trusts her own brother. He almost snorts at the thought. Ridiculous. He is not jealous of Farran. Arturia doesn't treat Farran any way like she treats Kay. He is not being replaced.

"…Did I offend him by implying he was poor?"

She's still staring at the door, hoping for an escape. Openly lost on what to do.

Kay's her big brother, and he can't think of a way to fix this. Because he can't figure out what happened, and she won't tell him.

A memory flashes to his mind: that first meeting, once again.  _'I thank you, Smith Farran, for my intact head.'_

He can't believe he's even considering this. But it's the only idea he has.

"I can't believe I'm doing this…"

But if anyone gives Arturia Pendragon good advice, it's Archer Farran. Even if Kay doesn't like the man, he has to give him that.

Before he can talk himself out of this utterly stupid notion, Kay gets to his feet, and moves toward his sister. "Come on, Wart. Let's get some answers."

Gripping her wrist gently as he can without letting her free, and trying to ignore her wince and trembling if only to hold back his own bloodlust until he has a target for it, he pulls her down the hall.

"Where are we going? This isn't towards the stands."

She's talking, and back in the present. He hopes that's a good sign.

"Well, first," he drawls, "we're going to borrow a couple cloaks from the guards for both of us. Then we're going to saddle Llamrei and Gwyneu. And then we're going to go show that good-for-nothing smith, Archer Farran, what happens when he refuses the King's invitation and makes the King frown."

She frowns at him, but walks with him. "Don't call him good-for-nothing. He's a master smith, and he's earned that mastery. It was an invitation; he had the right to accept or refuse." Then, more quietly, she adds, "Surely he had his own reasons for declining in the first place."

Kay rolls his eyes. "Well, we still have to see if he's finished the swords you ordered for the armory, now that the cookware is done. If they are… well, maybe I'll let him off the hook." He scowls, deliberately, where she can see it. "But just this once! The castle smith will go out of business at this rate!"

"…Oh, right… the swords…"

She's retreated back inside her own head. And he doesn't know why.

Gritting his teeth, Kay pulls his unresisting sister faster down the hall.

Farran's pried her out of her armor, but that was armor made of metal. Can the smith pull her out of her own head safely when the danger isn't physical?

…

_Tap! Tap! Tap!_

He can hammer nails without a thought, but today's work is a job he hasn't done for years. It has to be perfect. So even though he's hammering quickly, he's being careful.

He has to use a small cross-peen hammer for this one, as he bends one end of the metal in a curve around the horn of the anvil. There's a part of him that would prefer a job requiring a bigger hammer, if only in the hope that it would drown out the memories speaking in his head.

Archer knew when he accepted this job that he'd meet Merlin eventually. And perhaps, after his surprise meeting with Arturia, better known to the rumor mill as 'the helmet incident,' he should have guessed that the Magus would choose the time for their meeting, without Archer having any say-so.

After yesterday, there is only one thing he can say for sure. Merlin is  _not_  his ally.

' _You certainly are an… interesting person, Smith Archer Farran. I'll be keeping my eye on you. But, for now, I suppose I must bid you goodbye. I hope I'll see you again soon.'_

It was a warning and a claim of territory all at once, and one that Archer isn't about to ignore – yet. He doesn't have enough influence to go against a Magus like Merlin.

As the Magus of Flowers is forever trapped in Avalon, he has never actually died, and so never reached the Throne. Records on the Meddler are therefore… spotty, in places. Archer's going to need to do a longer assessment in person before he can actively move against Merlin.

Even then, he can't remove the Magus from the political chessboard. Not when Merlin's presence is what held back Arturia's enemies for so long.

Setting down the cross-peen, the blacksmith places his tongs back in the furnace, to heat the other end of the bracelet.

Merlin is an addition reason he's staying away from the archery contest today. He's pretty sure the eternally youthful old man stared at his bow on the wall a bit too long before he left, and if that was an implication that the magus would be watching the contest – well, Archer can't take that chance.

If Merlin thinks Archer is the kind of person who, when he hears a challenge, will respond by walking right into a contest in front of his enemies, winning it in disguise, and then give away the game by shooting the prize gold arrow into the dinner table in front of the judge with a note attached – well, the magus is conducting his search in the wrong century and the wrong color of clothing. Archer is  _not_  Robin Hood, thank you very much. That would require a Bad King John and an Absent Good King Richard, as well as a Sherriff or two and a band of adoring, benevolent poachers to hang onto Archer's coattails.

Not to mention actually having his work  _appreciated_ and his skills  _admired,_  if only in secret and in disguise. The persistent rumors that he is a fairy are getting ridiculous. Exactly how much cold iron does he need to shape to prove that he's not deathly allergic, and thus entirely human? Even if it's only a superstition, shouldn't that be enough logic to derail their fear?

With a frown, he focuses back on his work, trying to derail the bad mood, and forget about the contest.

' _I think you could make use of the money. There's no entrance fee. And I think you would enjoy yourself.'_

Yes, he could win that contest easily. And Arturia's invitation, under any other circumstances, would be impossible to turn down no matter what she'd invited him to.

But this is for the best, no matter how guilty he feels, Archer reasons. No matter how much he  _does_  need the money, he cannot afford to be in the public eye right now. Much less Merlin's eye.

He's lucky the Magnus was only offering warnings at the moment, rather than making good on his threats.

It's the same thing he's told himself, over and over, in these past months, as he forced himself to stay away from Arturia. Let her claim the victories she needs to validate herself. Let her win against her foes – why should he lessen that with supernatural aid?

He could take out so many of her enemies before they were ever a problem – the rebel kings, Rome, Morgan and Merlin even (if he could find them). And then the deaths would be noticed, and she might get it into her head that their assassin was her country's enemy, and he'd never see Excalibur coming, let alone have a chance to explain before she hit him.

He isn't allowed to take away Saber's hero-ing work and deny her a place on the Throne in the process, so 'kill all threats' wouldn't work anyway. And he can't risk living an example of the butterfly effect.

After realizing that he'd managed one definite change, by accident, he decided it would be better to sit on his hands and stick to his forge until Arturia was safely married and Gwen's dowry had arrived.

Because King Lot, living through the battle against Arturia? That is a definite timeline change, and one that is going to have political effects that EMIYA has no way to calculate for.

_He didn't even realize who the knight was that day on Badon Hill. He hadn't even intended to get in on the fight, just to observe it. But then, somehow, a young boy had gotten onto the battlefield, just old enough for pagehood, and was desperately trying to get to his father. Unarmored, weaponless, and without a mount. It would have been certain death._

_Untold, uncountable eons as a Counter Guardian should have hardened him to such things, but Archer wasn't going to let that happen._

_So he dragged the boy behind him, cursed the helmet obscuring his own vision, nocked an arrow, aimed it down a pathway that would kill no one before it hit the ground, and let fly. When his arrow had startled the horse into rearing, the knight charging the father speared the rider's leg rather than his ribs. That was all the rider needed to get one good hit of his own in, bashing the flat of his sword on his opponent's helm, dazing him long enough to pull his horse free of the tangle. His men were quick to drag him back to the physicians before the leg wound proved fatal._

_It wasn't until the kid had tried to thank him afterwards, and introduced himself to the soldier who'd saved him that Archer had realized what he'd done._

_Gaheris._

_Gawain's younger brother._

_He'd saved Gawain's father, King Lot. The most prominent of the rebel kings._

_Who wasn't supposed to survive this battle._

… _oh, hell._

Fortunately, Lot seems to have taken the loss of his kingship and the laming of his leg with equal grace, even allowing his eldest and heir to become a virtual hostage as a prospective knight of his former enemy, if the rumors from the castle about last night are any indication. But that's all the more reason for Archer not to attend. He might be fortunate enough to have been wearing a helmet and woodsmen's garb at the time, but if Gaheris is here or has even described the bowman to his father – no. He can't afford to be recognized as having saved a then-enemy of Arturia, and his coloring will ensure this won't be thrown out as mistaken identity on the boy's part.

Archer shakes his head, bemused at the memory. A single boy, not even half-trained to combat standards, is now the greatest threat to his plan. Utterly untouchable without completely altering at least the end of the timeline.

…And here he thought it was Morgan, Merlin, and Alaya he needed to worry about and plan for.

Combined with Merlin's not-a-threat, Lot's presence was a definite reason to stay away from the contest.

At least he's making use of the time. Archer can't help but smile as he raises the broken circle of metal from the fire, placing it on the horn of the anvil once more and taking up the cross-peen again, flipping it in his hand to hammer with the flat end, tapping the other end of the piece until it's flattened.

He owes his King a wedding gift, and while he doesn't make jewelry often – only ten pieces after his journeyman project as a blacksmith, plus a few non-jewelry decorative pieces for friends – he's never regretted learning it. One of the few pieces of his lifetime as a man that don't have regrets attached to the good parts.

"You always did have the best ideas, Luvia," he murmurs, an edge of bitter memory tinting his smirk. A moment later, he shakes it off, and dips the already cooling iron in the water barrel.

"Hallo the smith! Are you lot in there?"

Speak of the devil.

Archer grins, even as tongs pluck the armlet from the water and place it on his workbench, hiding it among the scraps left over from a set of decorative fire-irons.

"Just the one smith, sirrah!" he calls back out the door. "And I've nothing to busy myself with but holiday work, I promise!" Over the past few weeks, as Arturia has increased the number of hours she spends in his forge – about two to three hours every week, now – they've established a routine of bantering to check if he's busy with another customer or free for one of their discussions.

And if he uses it to reinforce his attitude towards her, of treating her as an idiot knight rather than a grand king – well, Kay, at least, would be protesting a great deal more if Arturia was anything less than obviously pleased by the treatment.

The familiar sound of a pair of horses being tied to the hitching post echoes through the door before two pairs of boots stomp through.

"What brings the castle to my doorstep today?" Archer asks, still facing the workbench. Picking up a strip of iron, he begins to file away at one end of it as he turns to face them. He's going to need to draw the strip into wire later, so he may as well do the preliminary filing while they talk.

He knows what's brought them, of course. The archery contest began two hours ago. It would have been clear by the end of the first round that he hadn't shown up.

"Well," Kay drawls, "there's a couple things we'd like to know. The progress on that order of blades, first of all. Second, Gwyneu is due for a shoe replacement in a week, so I thought I'd schedule that ahead."

"And my lord the King?" It's unusual for Arturia to let Kay do the ordering, but maybe she wants her brother to finish his business first so that she can have more time to speak with him in private.

He really does hope that they actually are in private now. Unfortunately, he's never been the best at Bounded Fields, certainly not good enough to set up something on his own that wouldn't be detected from the outside while he was crafting and raising it, so he has no idea if they've got an invisible visitor again.

"…The twenty practice blades?"

Huh? "Twenty, your majesty?" Setting down the file and the strip, Archer turns to face his customers, walking past them to bank the fire. If they're going to be here for a while, there's no sense in wasting fuel overmuch.

"As far as I'm aware, you only ordered fifteen." Pulling out his hand-sewn 'book' of parchment scraps, Archer checks his order.

"…You are correct. My error, Smith Farran."

Something in her voice makes him raise an eyebrow, even as he slips the book back inside his apron pocket. It's not exactly unusual for Arturia to be polite, but such a quick apology doesn't fit their normal banter unless she thinks she's pushed too far.

He risks a glance out of the corner of his eye even as he moves to check the flames.

She's fiddling with her hands in a way that he'd normally describe as fidgeting, except Arturia doesn't allow herself to fidget in public, unless it's with her sword hilt, and that's limited to situations where she's intentionally trying to intimidate someone.

Seeing her knotting her fingers together, not even looking at him while speaking with him, is more than unusual. Be it battle, conversation, or food—particularly in the case of food—King Arthur is always completely focused on whatever holds her attention. It's a little unnerving at first, honestly – normal people just don't hold eye contact that long, even if she blinks so that it's not a staring contest.

Once Archer got used to it, though, and realized that she finds it disrespectful to give any subject less than her full attention, unless it is absolutely necessary to keep her eyes on several things at once – well, some people might have continued to find the effect slightly creepy even if they understood that the King does not intend such.

He, on the other hand, does find it nerve-racking – but also flattering, even a bit intoxicating. Ridiculously adorable of her, even.

Odd, that she isn't even pretending to make an attempt at focusing now.

Hm. The wedding must be a worse strain on her than he realized, if she's so ready to apologize for a minor error in memory.

Well, far be it from Archer to add to her stress. "It's fine," he waves a hand in dismissal, poking the fire one last time before deciding that it's going to stay at a slow burn without wasting too much fuel or losing too much heat.

If she wants to talk work, he may as well take care of business first.

"If you came to pick them up, I'm afraid I still have three left to finish before the order is complete." Any other smith, he's proud to say, would take a week to finish just one such decent blade – or at least, decent by this era's standards. But between Wayland's teaching and his own knowledge from the modern era of the chemistry behind iron and steel, Archer can speed up that process – within that same week, he can make five blades, as well as keep up with any daily projects. Without once resorting to magic, or leaving any obvious differences in his swords except for their increased durability.

He could make them faster than that, of course, if he worked on Arturia's orders exclusively – but he's not the castle blacksmith, so he can't be dependent on the one customer, even if she's his steadiest patron. And he's pushing the limit without drawing suspicion about his skills as it is – any sword produced the normal way takes time, and Archer can shorten that time believably by only so much without accusations of witchcraft. Particularly since he's shouldering the entire workload on his own, without so much as a single apprentice to help man the bellows.

Green eyes snap to his hands abruptly. "Oh... my apologies, I... did not think you would be too preoccupied. Shall we come back another time?"

…What the hell?

She's apologized twice in less than a minute.

Even when she thinks she needs to apologize, she doesn't do that. She might elaborate on a first apology if it isn't accepted or understood – but make a second, separate apology?

This isn't just stress.

Her eyes are bright in a way that unnerves him. Every memory Archer has of such brightness, before or after his death at the end of a rope, has inevitably presaged an enemy being skewered, or himself with bruises over his bruises, at the very least.

_Figure it out as you go, EMIYA. Isn't that what you excel at?_

First step: remind her that this is a place of safety for her to be an idiot knight, rather than the King. And that he always has time for her.

"As far as I'm aware, it's been declared a public holiday," Archer retorts, getting to his knees, "which means, of course, that the only people still doing work are those in public office. Along with the odd person, such as myself, who doesn't seem to know when to quit working even if the King orders it. Which means that I may work as much or as little as I please today, and I use it only to catch up on other orders. So, my crowns-only customer, I am entirely at your service."

That's supposed to get at least a rueful chuckle out of her, but Arturia doesn't even take notice of his phrasing. Instead, she acknowledges it with a vague nod, before glancing over at her brother, who takes the opportunity to begin reciting the details of the order that all three of them know.

Snarking with Kay is something Archer can do on autopilot by this point, and he takes advantage of it, keeping Arturia in the corner of his gaze without obviously watching her.

As the craftsman and seneschal talk business, poking insults at each other in the openings they leave, the King drifts around the shop, glancing at the orders and tools without really seeing them, aimless and silent.

At one point, Archer is forced to break off his conversation with Kay and step in front of her before she walks too close to the fire. After that, she stays in the center of the shop and tracks him with her eyes. It ought to be flattering, but it's plain unnerving today. Particularly as Kay keeps insistently staring at him from behind her, as if eye contact could guarantee telepathy.

Eventually, he's had enough. "My lord king, would you please explain what you're really here for? I doubt you'd break the schedule I've heard so much about to come speak about an order that I told you yesterday wouldn't be ready for another week."

Arturia starts at the accusation, turning to stare at her brother.

Before she can speak, Kay interrupts, his patience reaching the limits.

"How about you explain why you didn't show up to the archery contest today? After receiving a royal invitation—"

Why is he not surprised that they've been leading up to this point? Oh, well, he knew it was going to come up eventually.

The King glares at her seneschal. "May I remind you, Kay, that it  _was_  an invitation, not an order? Smith Farran had a choice in the matter, as is his right, and he chose to not come. That is all." Her voice is firm, even if her hands tremble a little where they clench under her cloak.

He can't let her play the shield for him. There are far too many people out there who take advantage of her willingness to do just that and hide their wrongs out of sight behind her protection. Archer can stand on his own.

And he has no qualms about butting into idiotic knights' quarrels.

"As flattered as I am by your belief in my prowess at the bow, sire, I wouldn't have been comfortable participating in front of a large crowd." It has the advantage of being perfectly true. "Especially considering this particular audience."

Just like the first night she came for a visit, the King hones in on his last words. Her eyes narrow. "Has someone been harassing you again? Was it that Alan? I believe I asked you to let me know so that I could deal with such people."

Oh, this just  _reeks_  of schoolyard bullies and teacher's pets. Aren't they supposed to be adults? He has to head her off. If Merlin thinks he's running tales to Arturia and  _it's working_ , there's no telling what the magus might do in response. "Well, it wasn't strictly harassment, per se, majesty. Just a bit of an annoyance—"

"Who was it, Archer?"

 _Archer_.

His eyes widen.

She's always called him Farran, before. Or addressed him by his full name. The surprise is enough to make him lose every bit of resolve he's built up against her determined version of puppy-dog eyes.

"…He said his name was Merlin."

Kay and Arturia both stiffen at the name.

"And what, exactly," Kay drawls after a moment, "has that…  _meddler_  done?"

With a sigh, Archer folds his arms. "That advice you asked for yesterday, majesty? Apparently we had an eavesdropper."

"What?" Arturia stares at him, fully present for perhaps the first time since she entered the shop. "You mean—"

He nods, grimly. "He was in the shop, invisible, while we were talking. He showed himself just as I was about to lock up."

The blood drains from her face at a steady rate.

Huh. So she hadn't known. He hadn't thought she would, but it was good to be sure that the magus had been spying on his own behest. Equally good to know that Kay, as well as his sister, will now be actively considering the dangers of an invisible observer.

Wait. Why is Kay glaring at him?

Admittedly, Kay's usually scowling, but he saves the glares featuring attempts to crush whoever he's looking at with his gaze for situations that involve politics, Arturia's lack of very basic social understandings, or both.

"I wouldn't put it past  _Merlin_ ," the seneschal says, after a moment without Archer reacting to the glare. He pronounces the Magus' name as another man might pronounce an unspeakably foul crime. "He does have a tendency to observe before he acts, even if one can never be sure what goes through his mind."

Archer grimaces, removing the leather skullcap that's meant to protect his hair from becoming a spark-trap, and runs his hand through the sweaty locks to give himself time to think. "Well, he certainly doesn't mince words, I'll give you that—"

"And just what did he say to you, Farran?"

The King's eyes are clear and focused. She's still pale, if less so than she was, and somewhat shivering despite the heat of the forge, but her eyes are clear and focused on him in a way that almost removes the lump in his throat at her return to 'Farran.' Damned if he knows why; it's not as if any portion of his current moniker is anything but an assumed name.

Unsure how long he has let her go without an answer, he clears his throat, refocusing his thoughts. "Not much, your Majesty. He didn't threaten me, if that's what you mean." Technically, it's true. No words of threat were uttered. But no words of true welcome, either.

Kay, however, snorts at the very notion. " _Merlin_? Threaten someone? As if! The man is a bloody coward. He might have a habit of starting fights, but his specialty is  _running away_ from them with that bloody travel-spell before anyone can hit him."

Archer decides that now is not the best time to correct the knight on his notions of proof of cowardice, or the non-violent but equally potent forms a threat can take, or the fact that there is truly no such thing as a fair fight. There is only who is willing to do more, and more quickly, to exterminate the foe before the foe can destroy them.

"I see…" The king's eyes are shadowed by her bangs as she bows her head. When she lifts her face, her expression is unchanged, but her eyes are filled with apology under the returning cloud of darkness.

"Forgive me, Smith Farran," she begins, formality engraved in every carefully chosen word. "I had expressly ordered Merlin not to pester you after he first expressed interest in the helmet debacle, but it seems that even a direct order from his King cannot stave off the desire to satisfy his insatiable curiosity." Her expression firms. "I will have a word with him. He will not bother you again."

Archer honestly isn't sure how to respond to that earnest expression.

…What does one even say to something like that? A thank you?

Well… it might be a start.

"…Thank you… your Majesty… for that offer… but while I appreciate you volunteering to speak to him, I'm afraid I can't accept the apology."

Bad idea, bad habit. He can't let her start apologizing for others. This kind of acceptance of and compensation for other's faults is what got him into the Holy Grail War, and eventually the Contract, in the first place.

"Your apology is worthless when it is the Magus who offended, my lord King. I can't forgive you or accept your apology when you haven't done anything that requires either." He frowns down at her. "Didn't we talk about this yesterday? You're only allowed to apologize for your own actions, remember?"

She winces. "Ah, I apolo—"

Archer raises an eyebrow, and she cuts herself off, flushing furiously.

Definitely overreacting to criticism, the analytical part of his mind notes coolly. It's the part that makes battle plans, the part that he deliberately separates from any emotional consequence lest any feelings hinder his line of sight to victory at the lowest cost and highest chance of success. The rest of his mind frowns internally at the data, but agrees; if anything of the past six weeks is a guideline, she ought to be scowling at herself over such teasing, not flinching as if he was about to strike her.

Dread creeps in his stomach like a Servant-eating Shadow, a creeping certainty that his plans and data are incorrect.

He needs more information.

"Speaking of my advice… have you gotten the chance to spend a moment alone with your wife today?"

The King stiffens her shoulders, already tense with the itch to fight and no visible opponent to take it out on, looking to the side, one hand absentmindedly fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. "Ah, no, I'm afraid I haven't. Gawain's unexpected request for knighthood—"

Her lips are still moving, and he can read them, pick apart the movements and transcribe her words, but he can't hear her voice anymore over the taiko drums pounding in his ears.

The fiddling has caused her sleeve to slip upward.

There's a bruise on her wrist.

It's a bruise he's seen and treated many times in refugee camps from the warzones, the bruises he's seen too many times to ever forget how they appear. Always, always, from someone holding a person's wrists in place, over their head or behind their back, just firmly enough to warn at first, but any struggles to get away will ensure that the mark of the hand sticks around.

He didn't know what it meant the first time he saw it, years before, on his  _kohai_ 's wrist. He recognized the hand as Shinji's, or close enough to make him a likely suspect, but he didn't know how long you had to hold a person in place like that to leave that sort of bruise.

(And given what he now knows of what the damned worms could heal signs of, it was likely a very long time indeed for Sakura. Given Saber has Avalon…)

_No…_

He can't react. He can't react. She's already overreacting to every reaction he displays. He can't add to the damage.

_But this isn't… this didn't… The Records…_

_The Records were wrong to begin with, or something changed,_  that cold killer called Analysis snaps.  _Get them out and reassess the data!_

His own voice is far away, barely recognizable, as he accepts Arturia's excuses. "Very well… Just remember to try and find time later…"

Kay. He has to speak to Kay. They're both brothers, and Kay can obviously tell something is wrong with his sister if he broke his own scheduling plans and dragged her down here.

"Now, if that is all, your Majesty, I need a moment to speak with your brother about his own order."

There is no such thing, but Kay has some experience playing politics now; he steps closer to the workbench without even a hint of surprise. "Would you mind settling the horses in the meantime, my King?"

Arturia shakes her head, after a moment, before slowly starting back outside.

"Well, smith?"

Steel meets rusty brown.

"Who had the idea of coming here today? You or the King?" If he's to get any idea across to Kay of how to avoid aggravating the problem, given this era has no knowledge on how to treat wounds not limited to the body, he has to communicate the gravity of the situation. Pointing out Arturia's current reluctance to initiating a spontaneous schedule change, when they both know she's been making time to come down to the forge at the expense of her paperwork on several occasions, is a good start to that.

"Me. What does that—"

"Listen. You need to search the castle, particularly the royal chambers and those of the guests. Check for the presence of someone who doesn't have their invitation, or whom you _know_  wasn't invited. Or even someone who was invited, but to your knowledge chose not to attend."

"You know something?" Kay's eyes are bright with fury, seeking a target.

"Don't interrupt. You need to keep an eye on the King without it being obvious in the next few days. Make sure he stays safe, and healthy, but don't let that be at the cost of taking the decisions from him. Ask specific questions, offer specific choices that he can answer with a yes or no, and follow what he wants. No assumptions on  _anything._ "

Nine main points. Safety and health. Restore choice – rape is a theft of such. And he has to get another seven across to Kay without denying Arturia privacy.

"Try not to change your actions overly much, but don't be impatient. If he wants to talk, be ready to listen; if he doesn't, don't force the conversation, but be ready to listen at any time. Let the King have privacy and space, and don't let others take it away.  _If_  the King decides to confide in you, listen, and believe him."

Belief. The most important point.

"Don't make comments, don't make judgments, don't say  _anything_  that may indicate an opinion of your own contrary to or questioning of his on the subject. Let him judge what he's ready for, and be confident in his judgment. If he wants to do something, or change something, let him do it. Help him if he asks, but don't hover, and don't assume that you know what he wants or needs. Ask, and then give him what he tells you, and don't make a spectacle of it. Let him control the situation, even if his actions make no sense to you. And try to allow him the option to get out of the castle and the public eye as much as possible."

Keep your mouth shut and follow the lead, so the victim can choose. A restoration of choice, an acknowledgement of support.

"If you're angry, or sad, or whatever, don't color it with your opinion – his judgment is what matters right now. Take time for yourself; don't smother him with your presence, and don't wear yourself out, or you won't be there when he needs you later."

Know your limits and stick to them. Stay committed, and be flexible about the type of support needed. It is not about you, and you cannot try to make it about you.

He has to concentrate not to slip, to say 'he' and 'him' instead of 'she' and 'her.' Not that the advice isn't just as applicable in the case of a male victim, but Archer knows the truth about Arturia, and knows just as surely that he  _cannot let on_ , or neither of them will ever trust him about this or anything else ever again.

"Don't let him blame himself, since we both know he's prone to doing that, and don't let him make himself accountable for anyone's actions or choices that aren't his own. Don't offer any pity, and don't force him into doing anything. Don't let anyone else force him either."

So he lets the memory of the far more rare times he had to pass on advice to families of male victims, or listened as a doctor did so, flow from his tongue instead. Even if he's repeating some of the points in other ways.

"You  _do_  know something." Kay is distinctly angry, now, at the lack of answers.

Archer's been an older brother himself, even if Illya might have been born first. He can't lie to someone who feels as helpless as he did, not when Kay actually does have some power, even if it's simply to avoid making the situation worse.

"We both know he's hurt, and needs to heal. I have a suspicion about the cause," he admits. "I hope that I'm wrong. I can't do anything or advise you more specifically until I'm sure – I might do more damage in the process." That should keep Kay from pushing overly much. Just to be sure, though… "But if I'm right… "

His eyes narrow in calculation, and rage of a thousand blades sharpens his vision.

"…I will not violate another's privacy or point fingers without proof. But whether I'm right or wrong, you have to give your brother whatever he needs. You have to put your need to find a target and destroy it behind helping him. Don't let your father or anyone else push him into doing something, and don't let that magus try to make his decisions for him."

Saber told him often enough of her foster brother's antagonism for her teacher turned advisor, and Arturia has recounted more than a few such stories to him, even if she obviously doesn't understand the reason for or the depth of Kay's hostility.

If Kay has a legitimate reason to be on guard for something that is most definitely the Magus' fault, at least so far as making the situation worse… it's the closest clue he can give Kay without revealing that he knows 'Arthur's' secret.

"Tell me what you know!" Kay hisses. They can hear the hooves of the untied horses moving closer; Arturia must have untied them.

Archer shakes his head. "I told you, I need more proof before I can be sure. I've seen soldiers react this way after war, and I've seen children act this way after disasters destroyed the lives they knew. I don't know what triggered this specifically." All of it is true, even if Arturia's 'disaster' is different.

His hand reaches back on the workbench – and strikes his unfinished bracelet.

It's not finished, rather obviously so even to any non-smith.

He can't give it to her.

But he can't let her go away without  _something_  to compensate for this absolutely rotten day.

His other hand moves to his left arm, touching beneath his sleeve.

It's absolutely selfish.

He pulls his hand downward, dragging the object from under the cloth and down his wrist, pulling it off his hand.

"One more thing, before you go, my lord King." He steps out the shop door, Kay behind him.

Arturia's already mounted on Llamrei. It takes her a moment to rouse herself to his voice, but she turns her head and meets his gaze.

"I suppose I should apologize for not sending word I wasn't coming to the contest." He forces himself to smirk, before she can refuse the apology. "Just as well that I was absent, though. I suppose I owe you  _some_  sort of wedding gift, but you're doubtless bored with unwrapping gifts, so… here."

He opens his hand.

Arturia looks down, and though her vision is still glazed, she's making an effort to focus.

"…A bracelet?"

He scowls in mock offense. "An  _armlet_ , thank you very much. I don't do jewelry often, but you have enough weapons, and I'm not so wealthy as to make you a new suit of armor and pay for the cost myself – particularly when I don't have your measurements or even know if you would need such a thing. But the armlet… well, it's small enough." He leaves his palm open, within her reach. He will not force this gift on her; she must take it herself.

It is just a broken circle of iron, simply decorated. Two beads fused to the ends, to hold it in place. Three sets of interlocking line-shapes spaced evenly around the remaining circle.

It is a precious object to him, one he has never thought to give up to another in the years since its creation. Well, perhaps one person – for he knows what such a gift would mean to him.

' _You are the person living who I value most. I will protect you and your happiness with my craft and my life.'_

It is an ever-present reminder to him that he has at least one skillset in creation that is permanent and does not contribute to the deaths of others.

It is not something he could give up, truly and freely, without placing his ideals beneath the existence and happiness of the receiver.

But Archer is determined that the proud dragon-maiden, who has never known retreat from her foes, have at least  _one_  good thing this day, no strings or memories attached, that is not connected to her duties as the king or her ideals as a knight but to her happiness as a friend, and so he can only hope that she will accept it and enjoy it, rather than see it as a shackle.

She holds his gaze for another moment as best she can, then peers down at the iron bracelet.

"…I shall wear it with pride. Thank you, Archer Farran."

She plucks it from his hand and slips it beneath her sleeve.

"Come back and see me whenever you like, my lord King. The forge is always open for a knight who speaks to a craftsman as an equal."

She nods, in acceptance.

There are no more words. He watches them ride up the hill for a long time, until they are out of sight.

Then he bars the forge door and every entrance to his house, banks the fire for tomorrow, and triggers the silently invisible Bounded Field he hoped he would never have to use.

Night's coming on swiftly, and it suits his purposes, as he strips off the craftsman's homespun in exchange for battle leathers. Takes his bow, and walks the streets and roofs, evading the street patrols of soldiers with the ease of long practice.

A part of him knows it's useless. But he'll never forgive himself if there's still a chance that the witch is still in the walls of the city. If he can find her –

If he can stop the consequences –

If he… if he only…

If he can just…

An hour before dawn, as the sky lightens to grey, he finally admits the truth he's denied for hours. Morgan le Fay isn't anywhere in the walls of Camelot, or within ten miles. She's gotten what she came for, and left immediately afterwards.

He slips back into his house, drops the bolt, locks and latches everything, and checks the Bounded Field one last time.

No magus will notice this house's presence as anything out of the ordinary. Nor will anyone outside hear what takes place within it, for the time being. And anyone with malicious intent will trigger his warning.

For a moment he stands there, in his small house, barely conscious of the walls around him, hands clenched into fists, knuckles white, blood dripping from between his fingers as nails cut into his palms.

Denial is no longer possible.

Some men would have started cursing hours ago, systematically going through every foul word they had come across in their lifetime and applying each in turn to the perpetrator, the crime, the situation, themselves, and anyone and anything else they could even begin to blame for this situation.

The man known to his neighbors as Archer Farran doesn't do that.

Emiya Shirou, faced with a guiltless confession of domestic violence straight from Matou Shinji's lips, had responded with violence, only realizing later that he might have made Sakura's situation worse by his actions.

Afterwards, he chose to punish himself with intensified training, removing himself from the Archery Club, and focusing even further on his ideal, to the neglect of his family and friends. In other words, in the absence of an acceptable outward target, he turned his ire upon himself. The Holy Grail War seemed to offer targets enough for a time, people to save by throwing himself between them and any danger, perceived or real. Never realizing that he'd abandoned the ones who already needed his protection most, until  _they_  became the next targets.

The man who was once Emiya Shirou, Master of Saber, isn't like that, either.

He can't release stress by shooting at a target without going outdoors again, which would defeat the whole purpose of not attending the contest in the first place, and in any case the only target he wants to use right now is  _the one that isn't in the city_.

The part of him that is the closest thing to Emiya Shirou is still in shock, revolted by the crime, unable to comprehend how anyone could  _want_  to hurt someone as earnest and protective and kind and beautiful as this, and unwilling to try to understand anyone who would.

The jaded mercenary he's become has learned the philosophy of knowing one's enemy through repeated, bitter experience. But he too is dazed.

Archer knows about Mordred as well as anyone who knows the legend of the King of Knights, of course, even if he had trouble getting his head around how it might be possible for such to happen. When Saber confirmed Rin's suggestion that Merlin had been involved, through some prank or other, in one timeline or another (be it his or another self's memories, he wasn't sure which), he had simply accepted it and tried not to think too hard about the mechanics of it all.

Later timelines gave him more clues, eventually, until he assembled the picture that Morgan had taken advantage of the prank and created a homunculus in Artoria's form.

Though he had never categorized stealing the needed materials from Saber as anything but the violation it was, somehow EMIYA had never considered that the process might have been accomplished through something other than the magecraft equivalent of  _in vitro_  fertilization. Given her goal, why would Morgan risk anything less than a successful result, after all? As many couples could attest, creating a child on their own was not always possible; sometimes a little help to get started was necessary.

And so he had never considered the sort of trauma that might haunt the King for years, somehow. Only the trauma that would come when Mordred arrived, and told the King who she was.

_Why the hell didn't I?_

Even when he'd looked at the Records, they didn't exactly offer the details of such encounters down to the positions used. If a Hero could only be conceived on a certain night, the date was recorded, and the circumstances, and the location, yes – but not even the Root contained transcriptions of every word of pillow talk in every world's version of every conception. Okay, maybe it did somewhere, this  _was_  the Root – but not at the clearance level he'd been authorized to read at. Which meant, unfortunately, that such an encounter only got labeled as non-consensual once someone who'd examined the circumstances labeled it as such.

_Is this how it actually happened to Saber, then? Did she never even talk about it to anyone?_

If she didn't, and then Mordred revealed herself as living proof of her 'father's' infidelity, after 'Arthur's' court had already condemned Guinevere for adultery…

Not the point, not the goddamn point. He must be more in denial than he realized, if he's letting his focus drift like this – shit.

Whether Saber knew about the encounter or not, whether Mordred was 'destined' to be her 'father's' downfall or not, it didn't change the fact that Morgan's act was a violation beyond words. Archer therefore made an active effort, during his year of prep work, in two categories: establishing his reputation as a traveling blacksmith of great skill, and searching for Morgan before she could become a problem. It's how he ended up at Badon Hill in the first place; unable to find her on his own, he'd hoped she'd be stalking Arturia and that he might catch her before she became a problem.

Except then Gaheris and Lot happened, and he spooked himself badly enough to back off a bit.

Even if he caught her, he hadn't been entirely sure what to do with her. Killing her might cause more problems than he could predict – part of the precarious balance of magical power in the Isles at the moment relied on the fact that it was evenly distributed between what Archer privately referred to as the Big Three – Merlin, the public face of good as the royal advisor; Morgan, the main magic worker allied with the rebels; and Vivian, the Lady of the Lake, a Fairy who would temporarily ally with specific humans only.

But it was also the only way to ensure her threat to Arturia was gone, so if it came down to it, he wouldn't hesitate to make the kill.

The various legends and records disagreed enough on the timing of things, unfortunately, to make finding her difficult. Merlin's infamous prank seems to vary its timing between the versions, from the actual wedding night with Gwen to a few years into the marriage when muttering starts over the lack of an heir, or even a few months before it, in some cases.

Merlin.

_Did he know this was going to happen? Did he see this coming?_

… _Is there anything I can even do about it now, either way?_

In any case, his inability to find Morgan on her own meant he'd had to keep a close eye on Arturia without drawing attention from other parties too much. Only somehow, she'd slipped through his notice.

_But even if the prank began on the wedding night, Morgan shouldn't have struck immediately. Not when everyone was watching and toasting the new couple. All the Records indicated she'd strike at least a couple nights in._

It was why he'd let his worry over Lot's party keep him away from the first night's celebrations, hiding in his forge. He'd planned to hide himself in the rafters on the following nights.

 _Idiot! What were you thinking? Oh, wait, EMIYA; you_ weren't.

_Is this how it happened before?_

… _Or did my presence change something besides Lot? Or has Lot's survival changed something else?_

If he's condemned Arturia to a  _worse_  fate with his presence…

_I'm already damned. I don't mind dragging down my enemies, but… condemning her…_

Nausea rises in his gut. Archer forces it back down. He has no right to be sick. Yes, he's angry that there's another person he couldn't save –  _I've never saved anyone, what the hell made me believe I could carry off 'guardian angel' successfully, if I let something like this happen under my watch?_

Focus.

 _Emiya Shirou would know_ exactly _how to comfort her, I'm sure._

Logically, Archer knows that no, his younger self wouldn't, really; given how terrified Sakura had become of him finding out about her home life, he might make it worse. But emotion has no logic.

Focus. He has to focus.

"This isn't about you," Archer reminds himself, gazing at his own sneer in the reflection of a polished bit of blade. "It's about her. Blame yourself later. You have to be what she needs first, and don't make the situation worse to sate your bloodlust."

He's given Kay the advice he picked from years of contact with refugee camps, many of the displaced residents also victims of various war crimes.

Now he has to follow it himself.

Blowing his cover, even if he can kill all her enemies for her as a result, will gain nothing productive. In fact, it might solidify his position as an apparent enemy and possibly former spy – and the last thing Arturia needed right now was to have her confidence in her judgment of others shaken any further.

 _Yes, of course you can help her, because an armlet is going to do her_ so _much good now,_  his reflection mocks him.  _Do you even know what she needs?_

The bowman turned blacksmith scowls, turning unseeing eyes to the ceiling.

"…It doesn't matter. Yes, I don't know anything about how to begin fixing this damage, to Arturia and timeline alike.

"Yes, a sword can only destroy, and kill, and never save a life…

"But it doesn't matter. Someone has to do something. I'm the one who's here, so… I've got to try."

_No second chances._

_Even if my goal lies far in the future, I must not falter in laying the groundwork._

_Because the consequences of failure are not acceptable._

…

If someone asked the King to list the events after leaving the blacksmith's shop that day, Arturia could consult her steward's well-kept schedule and inform the questioner of the evening's celebration down to the banquet menu.

If asked of her impressions of the events, she would suppose that it had gone well enough.

If one suggested some odd event might have happened that evening… she would have no way to disprove their words.

Arturia Pendragon cannot clearly remember any specifics of the events involved. Only a few impressions from each of them.

How could she begin to focus on any of them? How could she have the space to remember new events, when  _that one_ kept intruding on her vision?

As she sits at her writing desk, scribbling nonsense with a dry quill, scratching without leaving impressions on the parchment, Arturia cannot bring herself to look back at the bed. Though the Queen undressed for bed, Arturia merely changed her formal robes for a simple set of shirt, tunic, and breeches, such as she may wear for training as Kay's squire – excusing herself with the suggestion that she needs to complete the paperwork, but while she has no desire to continue wearing her crown and royal robes to do so, it's far too cold to write in nothing but a chemise.

_At all times, to speak the truth…_

Not even married two days, and already she's breaking her vow of honesty and fidelity to her wife. That she did not intend to, nor want to, is irrelevant. Arturia has been unfaithful to the girl who gave up everything to help shoulder the ideal of 'King Arthur' – a burden, Arturia increasingly fears, that is too heavy for any shoulders but those of a King.

' _Don't try and fight, and she won't be hurt.'_

"Guinevere…"

The light of a single candle, reduced to a half-inch stump and a pool of wax drippings, is the sole illumination of the room. Guinevere slumbers, waiting endlessly on Arturia's promise to come to bed when the work was done.

Is it a lie, if the work was never ending?

If she were to tell anyone of the – attack – it would be Gwen. Morgan threatened her directly, after all.

' _I promise, I'm fine. You didn't hurt me.'_

But she has.

She cannot tell Gwen. The King cannot worry the Queen. Guinevere's position forces enough misery on her with one secret; how can Arturia burden those slim shoulders with another, let alone one of this nature?

If this madcap plan's original purpose works, Guinevere will have worries enough to fill her time.

No. She need not worry her wife, even when Guinevere is lying in that bed. Arturia will tell herself that everything will be fine as long as many times as it takes to believe it.

Her foster father, on the other hand…

' _You're not exactly hiding what happened very well.'_

Sir Ector's assumption of a hangover is a blessing to her, after the initial panic that somehow he  _knew_  what had occurred. Unfortunately, her behavior with the flowers, their scent lingering even after the laundresses and chambermaids have aired out the room, is not something that can be dismissed as easily as dizziness or lack of coordination, so it is uncertain whether he still holds that to be true.

Thankfully, he is too concerned with protocol and aware of the change of authority roles to ever contradict the excuse she gives him. No one may contradict the King, and Sir Ector can only push the boundaries of protocol so far before they bind him, even as immediate foster family.

She need not worry about him.

Kay is another story altogether.

While she does not remember her actions, precisely, the fact that Kay was concerned enough to break the schedule and drag her out of the court means that he considers her conduct unusual enough to require such.

Since she refused to give him answers, he will keep an eye on her until he gets them himself. Experience has taught her this.

Beneath Arturia's shirt, a leather pouch strung on a cord contains a rough woodcarving – Kay's attempt at a lion to guard his sick sister's dreams, yet designed to be old and weak lest it scare her. One seeing the carving on its own merit would call it a four-legged beast with a tail, yet be unable to identify it as dog or cat.

It matters not. She has always appreciated the sentiment more than the appearance.

The same may be said of his efforts to understand and repair the problems ailing her today, for she appreciates her sibling for  _noticing_ , even while terrified that he did so.

Because unlike Sir Ector, Kay only cares for protocol when he can use it to his advantage in an argument.

' _Scheduling can wait. What's wrong, Wart?'_

She cannot let him figure out what happened.

"Scheduling can  _wait_?" she repeats aloud, but softly – she does not wish to wake the Queen.

If that's his response when he knows nothing certain, then if Kay finds out, he  _will_  drop everything else in favor of fussing over her.

People  _notice_  if the King is being fussed over.

They also notice if the business of the kingdom is no longer being taken care of. The same business that is Kay's main job, particularly this week when the King is busy with a wedding.

The country will suffer.

She cannot let her brother comfort her, not at that price. The country must always come first. That is the duty of a King – to create a peaceful and just country.

She will need a distraction for Kay, in that case. Perhaps hunting down Merlin will do.

After all, the Magus of Flowers is one more person she did not see today.

Arturia never considers the idea that Merlin planned for the attack. He's spent too much time cultivating the ideal king to let anything interfere at the moment. Not to mention, any holes in the security to allow that person through would also be a gateway for anyone else with sufficient knowledge. Risk assassins this close to either her or her new wife? Not likely.

But then… why did he not foresee it?

She's never asked how his sight works, not in detail. She knows from the day she drew Caliburn that he can see far into the future. But she does not know what limits there are to it, or what the cost may be.

…Yet how can she ask such questions of him now?

She can't, Arturia realizes abruptly, the quill dropping from numb fingers. He'd want to know why she was asking, and whether she answered or not, he'd go looking for the reasons on his own. And she can't let that happen.

She has no idea how the spell will end, whether Merlin will need to manually undo it, or if it will fade on its own. Nor does she know how she will deal with his inevitable jokes and innuendos whenever she next sees him.

Dropping her head into her hands, Arturia rubs her tired eyes.

Going to sleep means going to bed. She's tried to undress for sleep twice already, but ended up freezing before even rising from her chair.

"What am I going to do…?" It's a weak, desperate plea for advice, and she despises it. It's as weak as the ' _please'_  she managed to whisper then, and weaker than the ' _stop'_  she could not get out. Self loathing curdles in her gut, and her elbows spread on the table.

A bump at her elbow.

Arturia jerks back to wakefulness before remembering.

Farran's gift of an armlet.

It's comfortably warm on her skin, as if she's just taken it from the blacksmith's hand a moment before.

She's not an idiot, even when dazed. Even if she can't quite remember the ride to or from the forge, she knows that Kay brought her there in some hope of fixing her.

Farran's far from a fool. Gruff, certainly, with a wry wit and a flat refusal to make sense of or believe in the ideals she holds so dear. Taciturn on anything of his life before their first meeting – she still has no idea where he grew up, or even the name of the wife he speaks of in the rare unguarded moments, a bittersweet longing in his voice. Yet, for all his secrecy and scolding, she finds him a dear companion – maybe, dare she even think it, a friend?

But friend or acquaintance, she cannot confide in him this attack, even if she has trusted him with so much else she has never even considered putting into words for her brother or wife.

What happened to her – a man in the parts that mattered, at that point – is not something she can explain as anything more specific than an attack. Had Morgan been a man, she might have known what to call it, so long as she named herself as a woman. Were she to explain Merlin's prank, and how it had gone wrong –

No.

She cannot confide her greatest secret in him. No matter how good a friend he may be. No matter what good advice he offers.

The kingdom's safety is not worth risking for even a moment of shared comfort, no matter how dear. No matter how trustworthy Farran is proving. Enough people know as it is – and with only four aware, somehow it still got out.

Yet how can she acknowledge him as worthily as he deserves?

Not with an offer of knighthood, that's for sure.

Following his advice, then?

' _Speaking of my advice… have you gotten a chance to spend a moment alone with your wife today?'_

One more way she's failed. She isn't sure she's even capable of carrying it out, now.

Mindlessly, she undoes the tie in her hair with one hand, letting it fall free over her face. The other cradles the bracelet, mindlessly tracing the lines cut into its surface.

Still… his comfort is appreciated beyond what she can express, soothing a strain she did not recognize as existing.

If anyone is sharp enough to put the pieces together for any and all of her secrets, it's Archer Farran. The easiest way to avoid that risk would be to cease contact with him.

Why does the thought make her body tense in readiness for a full-body blow?

"Those times in the forge… Those times when I am nothing but the 'idiot knight' in a dented helmet, doing my best to get myself killed in peacetime for a pretty girl's smile and a ribbon… or asking questions that no one else would begin to consider how to answer for anyone but a child…"

She's put off sleep too long. The candle flickers and sputters at the end of its wick, and she blows it out before she forgets and risks a fire.

She'll just rest her head on the desk a moment.

"Perhaps… if I can find a way to spend more time with him, I can forget myself for a little while… I can seek the answers I need to become the King my people deserve…"

Her eyes droop.

The iron armlet rolls from her slack hand to lie on top of the inkwell.

Less than two hours of sleep pass before the sickly sweet smell and the woman's laughter wake her, gasping for air like a drowning swimmer with cramping muscles.

Then an hour.

Then a fifteen minute doze.

An hour before dawn, she gives up, and dresses in the dark, scribbling a note for Gwen to say where she's gone, slipping the armlet on without a thought.

She has another promise to keep – and a magus to track down and scold, for disobeying her orders about stalking Archer Farran.

It doesn't matter what Merlin may or may not know. It doesn't matter what her foster brother or father suspect, or what her wife worries over.

The nightmares have given her an answer to the dilemma.

The answer she had already been resolved upon since she took the first step on this path, unable to turn back having set foot on it.

It's laughingly simple. She shouldn't have needed the wake-up this event has served as to remind her of her duty.

_She cannot be a man._

_She must be a King._

_Even if she cannot protect herself._

_Her country will be saved._

_No matter what the cost._

_Arturia failed._

_King Arthur will succeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline Change: King Lot is recorded as one of the casualties in Arthur's final battle against the rebel kings, at the hands of King Pellinore, one of Arthur's allies and later his knight. Lot's death routed Orkney's forces and began an extended blood feud. Gawain swore vengeance against his father's killer. In tales where King Arthur's reign is extended for more than twenty years, Gawain is said to have wanted revenge immediately on receiving knighthood, but on his brother's advice waited an entire decade before killing the knight. The feud would extend to Pellinore's sons, Lamorak and Percival, but does not seem to have targeted his illegitimate son, Sir Tor.
> 
> Coinage system: It's historical fact that the coinage in Britain went out of fashion when Rome left Britain behind and stopped sending more coins over to pay their army, returning Anglo-Saxon Britain to a barter economy. There is a large gap in archaeology dating records where coins stop appearing, and eventually even forgeries stop – because what's the point of counterfeiting if no one is using it? Seriously, if coin minting is done by hand, it takes a lot to keep it going and get it in use. No kingdom lasted long enough to implement a standard, or was big enough for it to be used across Britain. And that led to widespread economic and urban collapse.
> 
> For my purposes, I've made Aurelius Ambrosius (Arturia's uncle) responsible for a resurging monetary economy, having recruited a small guild of metalworkers to restart a monetary economy with individually minted coins, with Uther continuing the matter when he became his brother's heir. But if the gap between her blood father's reign and Arturia's own reign had been any longer, Kay would never have been able to revive the system. And he has no idea how to create such a system from scratch (no more than I do), so that's pretty fortunate.
> 
> Llamrei and Gwyneu: Arthur and Kay's horses, respectively. Their names are found in the Welsh tale of Cullwych ac Olwen, which linguistically dates to circa 1100 A.D., making it perhaps the earliest surviving Arthurian tale.
> 
> Sirrah: archaic, used as a term of address for a man or a boy, especially one younger or of lower status than the speaker. Highly disrespectful of Archer to use it at all for a customer, let alone Kay or Arturia.
> 
> Blacksmithing terms: Cross-peen is a small hand hammer, with differently shaped ends, so that a flip of the wrist is enough to switch tools – a valuable time saver when working metal before it grows cold. The flat face is used to hammer, or pound a surface flat, while the wedge-shaped end, known as a fuller, and oriented perpendicular to the hammer's handle, is used to spread the hot iron, creating a nearly straight edge where it strikes. Drawing refers to the process of stretching a piece of metal through a thinner hole, to create wire – filing down one end is preparation work.
> 
> The Armlet: Look up Celtic Torcs if you want something of an idea of what this may look like – the main difference would be the size. Yes, Archer made it. Yes, iron jewelry is a thing. Yes, males could and did wear this sort of jewelry. No, it is not a Traced object. More details will come up in story.


	8. VII: The Seeds of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BANQUO  
> If you can look into the seeds of time  
> And say which grain will grow and which will not,  
> Speak, then, to me, who neither beg nor fear  
> Your favors nor your hate. (Macbeth, 1.3.61-64)
> 
> A young man listens to his father's final instructions, and is forced to consider hard questions.  
> A forgotten princess considers the family that has abandoned her, and the plans that have… not gone as planned, at all.  
> And across the sea, an old enemy is stirring from his slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: And here is the new chapter, as promised. My apologies for it taking so long. As a college student, I must warn that these biannual updates of summer and winter, when I have more free time to write, are now likeliest times for me to publish.
> 
> However, I also bring you a chapter several times as long as before! And an action scene!
> 
> Big news: UniverseCreator is now officially co-writer. This would never be possible without you, my friend. Extra credit for extensive help with beta services in general, sibling dynamics in particular, and for ultimately writing the conversation between Gaheris and Gareth, parts of Morgan's thoughts, and part of the action scene.
> 
> Credit to Jane Yolen's Merlin and the Dragons, as well as the legend of Dinas Emrys in general.
> 
> I disclaim any ownership to these fandoms that inspire me. Enjoy, everyone!

_Late June 527_

Two days after Gawain's knighting, and one day after his request to have Gaheris as his squire is made official, his parents begin quietly making preparations to leave.

This isn't entirely unexpected. King or lord, a man only rules so long as he upholds his responsibilities to his vassals – and given that Orkney's responsibilities extend over a string of more than seventy islands – thankfully, less than a third are inhabited, though smugglers probably make use of more than a few others – and every dispute they can get up to between themselves, it is more than understandable that Lot prefers to be home as soon as possible, and is attempting to account for any travel delays that his newly wounded leg may cause. Even if it means risking royal displeasure to so obviously depart early, or seek permission to do so.

The timing of Arthur's wedding is so close to Midsummer, and if at all possible the Island's ruler is preferred to be home for the midsummer bonfires. And, of course, to fend off the pirates: Orkney is perfectly located for any raiders to invade either the rest of Britain or the Norsemen's lands, and the only times it is safe from such raiders naturally are the spring and autumnal storms, when wind and rain batter the islands.

"I thought you were confident in the defense we left at home?" Gaheris inquires, grey eyes staring at their father in simple confidence of an explanation when it comes to their home's safety. Small and spry for his age, the middle son is often quiet in public, but possesses a keen eye for observation, along with a tendency to ask awkward questions at the worst of times.

(Mother proudly claims both eyes and questioning to be from her side.)

Father shifts in his chair absently, rubbing at his leg, fingers drifting over the scar beneath his clothes. It's not a tactic to give himself time to think; even with family, he'd never betray such weakness.

"Normally, yes. But last year's storms worry me. If this is the beginning of a pattern… I'd like to get home while the skies are clear, and I only need worry for the tides."

Gaheris nods, apparently satisfied. Swimming is a skill learned early and always practiced, for Orkney's currents are swift and deadly for the unwary, with many whirlpools and hidden undertows, not to mention hidden rocks almost _designed_ to sink a ship.

"And this has nothing to do with the messenger that arrived last night?"

"Who told you about a messenger?" Gawain frowns. "You can't have been down to the stables yet—"

"I didn't know the rider was a messenger until you confirmed it," Gaheris grins.

Father shakes his head at both of them. "If I'm to be leaving your brother here as your squire, you'd better see through his tricks quicker than that, Gawain. Gaheris, that's going to get you and possibly several other people into a lot of trouble someday. But since you've already figured that out… what news do you think he brought?"

While Gawain is assuredly the heir, he's always excelled at combat lessons over those of land stewardship. Gaheris is the opposite, with a canny mind well suited for managing land, people, and magic.

"It's either problems with the crops or rumors of early pirates, most likely," Gaheris responds promptly, his face sober. "Or both, if we're really unlucky. If it's the crops, you want more time to be able to bargain for grain over several spots on the way home. If it's pirates, you want the rest of the men back home so they can deal with them."

Father nods in approval. "Just so. Now, go find your mother and bring her back here once she's finished packing. I need to give Gawain some final instructions."

Gaheris grins, hops to the floor, and walks out of the room.

The door closes on father and son. The lord and the heir to Orkney.

Gawain waits. His father is often slow to speak, but he never wastes his words.

"…I never thought I'd see the day when you'd mirror my steps in the Pendragon's court, you know." Storm-weathered brows draw together, as his father clasps his hands.

Gawain frowns. "Mirror your steps? I'm hardly a hostage to the treaty, father. I _chose_ to do this, and asked you to support me."

Father's lips twitch. "Whether you are hostage to my good behavior in actuality or not, the fact remains that you could become such, and most people will see you as such for many years." He gets to his feet with a groan, and limps toward the window. Gawain follows, neither close enough to crowd, nor far enough to miss catching the older man if need be.

"My greatest worry for you has always been your unwillingness to question your own decisions once they are made," Father says quietly. "One of my own worse qualities to inherit, and one that has nearly brought our family to irreparable grief in my decisions, my inability to be content with what I had. To be certain that I was enough for your mother – after all, she was the High King's daughter, and I was a former hostage who was caught kissing her. If your mother hadn't managed to declare us betrothed… well, I'll never know how she managed to get your grandfather to agree to that, when we both knew how grand a marriage he planned for her. _Much_ higher than a kingdom that only covered our few, poor islands at that time." He chuckles grimly. Both of them are well aware that Lot managed to double his territory within the first five years of Gawain's life, gaining a secure hold on the northern tip of Scotland and cutting off the threat of invasion from one direction in the process.

"I love your mother. I've caused her a great deal of trouble and pain, over the years, with my own inability to understand _why_ she reciprocates the feeling. My own attempts to make up for any supposed inadequacy. Her repeated efforts to squash my vision of her on a pedestal. The difference in living standard, between her father's court and mine. The desire for peace." Father shakes his head. "And in my efforts to give her and you everything I thought she deserved… I've somehow managed to miss you growing up."

Gawain isn't sure how to answer. He's seen Lot the king more than he's ever seen Lot the father – the father is reserved for quiet dinners at home, the king for commanding the armies, with both roles in command for lessons in weaponry, riding, tactics and strategy, and stewardship. But while he's never doubted that his father cares, he's never heard such… _weariness_ , if that's what it is, in the man's voice.

Father says he missed his sons having grown up. Gawain wonders when his father grew so old and stooped. It's not the grey flecking his hair in places, or the stiffness his father refuses to use a cane to compensate for, or the weathered face – all those are familiar, and welcome. No, it's the shoulders and back, curving and crooked as a cart horse drawing a weight beyond its strength for years, managing through stubbornness and indifferent exhaustion, so that when it is finally freed from the harness, it still carries the ghost of the load.

"Be that as it may… you _are_ a man. So all I can do is support you." Father coughs, discomfited at his own fit of sentimentality. "But, since you're _not_ a hostage… we would appreciate you coming home once in a while. Tend to the land, make sure the people still know their heir, and you know them, you see. Don't forget your duties as steward for your duties as a warrior – I know very well which ones you prefer, and that's fine, so long as you don't forget the others."

"And bring Gaheris with me?"

"Unless you want your mother to make all our lives very unpleasant, yes. She still hasn't forgiven you for the stunts you pulled to tame Guingalet."

Gawain flushes. "He's an _aughisky_ , father! I couldn't have a more faithful or better suited mount if I looked the world over!"

"Exactly. He's an aughisky. A water-horse whose idea of fun as a species is enticing youths and maidens onto their backs, then riding into the water before you can get off and dragging you into the undertow to drown, before tearing you apart, eating the meat off your bones, and use your fingers to pick their teeth. I don't care how fine that stallion is; you knew perfectly well what he was when you decided to tame him, which does _not_ make a good case for your having sidestepped madness, Gawain." His father's voice is tight and harsh, just as when they argued it out two years ago. "We all thought we'd lost you. Do you even remember how much your mother cried that day?"

Gawain slumps. If there's one thing he has difficulty dealing with, it's crying women – growing up in a house of boys isn't particularly conducive to that. Morgause might have raised her sons with a clear understanding of manners, and what constituted rudeness, as well as a refusal to let them out of the schoolroom before they understood what 'no' meant, and every step necessary to avoid even accidental pressure from their high birth when making a request of someone of lower status. But some things one can only acquire with experience, and none of the sons has much luck dealing with crying women – their only strategy really is to find _another_ woman, _not_ crying, and have _her_ deal with the matter before taking off out of there.

Morgause almost never cries, but that day she shed her tears freely and openly.

Lot had made sure that Gawain had all his limbs intact, and gave him a good night's rest. Then he'd dragged him out of bed while it was still full dark, tossed him a practice blade, and made his son hold off five of the best warriors they had, at once. That had been two years ago, and even with his knack for swordsmanship as well as daily practice to keep his skills polished, the combination of multiple opponents with superior weaponry and the sun hours from rising had been enough to drive the lesson of Gawain's stupidity home through defeat.

(Even if he wasn't about to admit it out loud. Because, damn it, he _still_ thought Guingalet was worth it. All of it.)

"…I remember. And I'm sorry I made you worry."

"But you're not sorry for your actions."

The new knight's lip stiffens. "You told me once to only apologize if I regretted something, or felt I had made a mistake. I refuse to call Guingalet a mistake."

Father sighs. "I don't want to end this day on an argument, so we'll let it lie. There's a bit more to cover, preferably _before_ Gaheris returns with your mother."

"His training?" Gawain expected this subject. As someone naturally talented with weapons, he's not the best at training a person who doesn't have the same knack.

Father snorts. "That can wait until he returns. No. This is a matter of stewardship, not of warrior's skill." Leaning against the window, his eyes narrow.

"The storm isn't the only matter the messenger brought. There are rumors… that a certain ship we all thought wrecked last year might not have taken all souls to the bottom with it."

Gawain blinks. "I take it this ship is not our ally?"

"I should hope never to ally with a Saxon vessel, Gawain. There is only one man in Britain who willingly does that."

…He cannot have heard that right.

Gawain stares at his father.

Matching storm blue eyes lock, unyielding and patient, the tide wearing away at a rock over millennia.

"You can't mean…"

"This year of out-of-season storms has ensured sea travel of more than two miles from shore to be unwise. The tyrant just happened to retreat with his forces onto a boat after your new king gave him a taste of slaughter, before the storms reached enough of a fury that everyone decided it was wiser to stay on land." The chuckle is humorless and cold. "Vortigern the Usurper has been fighting for his brother's throne since before you were _born_ , Gawain. He had the best claim, when no one knew that Arthur existed. We refused to support him because he was more willing to trust foreign raiders with a history of turning on those they're supposed to protect – willing to trust _Saxons_ over our own men! Really, the only surprise is that it took him so long to find a way back onto the island."

Lot of Orkney straightens to his full height, perhaps two finger-widths taller than Gawain, ignoring the pain that must agonize the stretched scar in his leg muscle.

"I signed that peace treaty and agreed to your knighthood here for two shared reasons, Gawain. First, I know when I'm beaten, and Arthur has proved himself ready and able to stand against Vortigern – and unite others under him to do so. Something no one but his father has managed. Even I could only unite them against Arthur. And no one but Uther and Arthur have managed to make Vortigern retreat. More to the point, Arthur is the only one who has never needed to retreat from Vortigern."

Lot grins, his teeth bared in defiance of his foes and his fate. Gawain is hard put to keep his face straight, serious as a knight ought to be, as King Arthur's example teaches.

"The second reason is responsibility. A king has power, yes, but he has the responsibility to care for his people. And over time, I fear I have shirked my responsibilities to my family and my original lands in favor of gaining more power. That leads me in the direction of Vortigern, who would abandon responsibility for the small tribe he ruled in his own right and hire Saxons to gain more power. He would lead an invasion to his own land in order to rule over it, even if he rules nothing but ashes in the end. I… cannot risk becoming that."

Gawain frowns. "I understand those as reasons for a peace treaty, but the second reason, I do not see as relating to my knighthood."

"Ah, but that too is a matter of responsibility. It is why I have agreed to split the family, and leave Gaheris as your squire. If the worst should happen, and Vortigern invades with reinforcements from the North, Orkney is a prime landing spot. Your mother and Gareth will be with me, much as I wish I could send them to safety, for your mother will not leave, and thinks she can better protect those under her eye."

"And if he attacks here, first, and Gaheris and I fall in the battle?" Gawain does not want to think of the possibility, but even while he believes his new king undefeatable, he is well aware that wins do not come without casualties and sacrifice.

"…Then I hope to evacuate the isles as much as I can, and, if necessary for my people's survival, make either peace or a last stand against Vortigern. Hopefully, at least one branch of the family will survive and lead Orkney in strength and success."

If this were any other opponent, those would be reasonable options. And a last stand is always an option, if not always the best one when considered in the light of responsibility.

But…

"Make peace? With _Vortigern_?" He stops himself from adding, _have you lost your mind_ , butthe implication rings through his tone.

"The storms have half-ruined the harvest by shortening the growing season, Gawain. If it comes down to a choice between surrender and starving—"

"Even if Vortigern accepted those terms of surrender, the mere idea of him honoring his word in full is preposterous, Father! The moment the truce ceased to benefit him, he would simply be after our heads again!"

"I am well aware that Vortigern's history of oathkeeping is lacking, Gawain. However, I cannot simply dismiss the option of making peace if the chance comes for it." Father's eyes gaze beyond the edge of the capitol's rooftops, beyond the horizon, to the sea and Orkney far beyond. "I promised I would make whatever decisions I have to make in order to keep the people of Orkney safe and alive, according to the situation. You may make your own decisions when you inherit the position." The head turns, stormy blue focused on Gawain, binding protests before they can leap from his tongue. "By then, I hope you'll have learned to think less of a warrior's personal glory and honor, and more of the oaths you have taken to guard our people's lives."

What? That's not – how did Father even _begin_ to come up with that conclusion – Gawain would _never_ set his honor above another's life. The very action would tarnish both him and the person whose life he risked!

But that stormy gaze is a lead weight, and while his mouth opens and closes, he cannot get the words out, and he doesn't understand why.

Fortunately, before he makes too much of a fool of himself, the door bursts open—

"Gareth! How many times do I have to tell you to knock?"

—and the youngest son of Orkney sprawls upon the floor rushes, before leaping to his feet and rushing towards Father. Gawain barely manages to catch him by his tunic before Gareth can knock their father over and aggravate the leg, instead yanking him backward.

Mother shakes her head in the doorway, Gaheris wincing in apology as he peeks around her skirts. "You know better than to knock someone over like that Gareth – or I certainly hope you do, anyway. Gawain, don't ruin your brother's tunic with that grip. I spent a long time on it."

Gareth is not _quite_ so foolish as to ignore that tone from his mother, and stills his squirming long enough for Gawain to shift his grip without letting him go. "Sorry, Mother. Father, make Gaheris stop lying!"

"I didn't lie!" Gaheris snaps, frustrated – clearly, this has been going on for a while. Possibly from the moment Gaheris was sent out of the room to find the rest of the family. "It's not my fault the truth doesn't suit your tastes! Mother told you it's true! Do you really think we could have afforded outfitting two squires, even if you were old enough?"

"I _am_ old enough! Twelve is plenty old enough – you're only fourteen and a few months, and you're only good at caring for the weapons, not at using them! You're barely any good at the bow!"

Father frowns. "One at a time, please. Morgause, would you close the door? Boys, don't insult your brothers, and don't yell. Now, Gareth, what do you think your brother is lying about?"

"He says he gets to stay here as squire with Gawain, and I have to go home with you!" The twelve year old isn't quite whining, but he's fairly close to it. Gawain inwardly winces at the pitch, taking a firmer grip on his little brother's shoulder – hopefully, he won't have to choose between damaging the tunic and risking Gareth swinging punches.

"Well, yes. Why do you think he's lying about that?" Father's eyes slide up to meet Mother's. Thankfully, she's closed the door behind them and bolted it. Folding a pair of cloaks across her arms, she moves closer –

Ah.

"A pair of new cloaks – for the two who are staying here," Gawain muses aloud. "That's how you figured it out. Not from Gaheris' words."

Mother looks down at her arms in surprise.

Gareth doesn't respond. He's entirely focused on Gaheris.

"If only one of us can be squire, it should be me! You're no good at weapons, you'll _never_ be a knight, so go home and be a boring steward!"

Gaheris flinches. Then his eyes narrow. "I may be poor at attacking with a sword, but I can defend all day, and hold my own for a fair few hours! And better still, I know when _not_ to use a blade! Can you say the same?"

"Exactly! You couldn't even save Father, you had to get someone else to do it for you! Stop lying about an archer that doesn't exist! No one could make that shot!"

"That is no way to speak to your brother, either of you." Father's voice is stern as he carefully lowers himself into his chair.

"The archer _does_ exist!" Gaheris grinds the words out through clenched teeth, apparently not hearing Father's words. Fists balled, glaring daggers at Gareth. Ignoring everything but his opponent.

Gareth smirks, cocksure in the certainty of having struck a nerve. Gawain remembers the look of that smile from the training yard bullies. It is unnerving to see it on his usually sweet, if often bratty, brother.

"Of _course_ he exists, to you," the twelve year old drawls. "He came from _your imagination,_ after all!"

"You need to stop talking." Knuckles whiten. "Quit yapping, you little… terrier." Gaheris' whole body is shaking now, body language tightly turned in on himself in an effort not to avoid crying, but rather to avoid striking at his brother. Teeth already clenched have begun to audibly grind.

Gareth doesn't take the hint. Not their parents' warning looks, not Gawain's clenched hand on his shoulder, not Gaheris' efforts to avoid throwing that punch. No, he continues talking, chest puffing with satisfaction as he scoffs. "Is that the best you can do for insults, _big brother_? A terrier does very well at smelling and catching _lying rats_ , after all." He tilts his head, a mocking smile playing about his lips. "Just as weak with your taunts as you are with a blade. I'm not surprised a bit that you needed to _imagine_ someone to save you. And not even a hero, just a cowardly bowman who wouldn't even show his face! How very convenient… to imagine a rescuer… a course of action that _suits a girl!_ "

Gawain silently curses. He's used to holding Gareth back from punching someone. He's used to encouraging Gaheris to do the opposite when pushed past a certain point.

He never thought he'd need to be in the opposite position, restraining Gaheris.

Fortunately, just as Gaheris' arm starts to shift, and Gawain is about to move to put himself between the two –

"Boys."

Mother's tone, indicating her royalty, her right to command regardless of her gender, rings out through the room. It is not particularly loud. But it silences all her sons, each instinctively understanding the danger of ignoring that warning.

Gawain flinches, snapping to attention.

Gaheris halfway turns to face her, keeping one eye on his opponent peripherally. His expression, now turned up to meet the taller speaker, is passively respectful, but agitation roils under the surface.

Gareth pauses his rant of insults, but otherwise indicates no acknowledgement toward her. Instead, he frowns at the loss of Gaheris' attention.

"Gareth. That is enough. I _know_ I raised you to use manners better in regards to your brothers and your elders in general."

Gareth stiffens, then turns as best he can under Gawain's hand, bristling, an accusing finger pointed at Gaheris, who is now unsuccessfully fighting down a grin.

"But Mother, he –"

"I don't want to hear another word of interruption out of you, Gareth." Mother's face is tight. Her arms press against her body, the cloaks draped over them wrinkling at the grip. Her mouth is a thin, straight line, expressing neither approval nor disapproval of anything or anyone.

"I wasn't there that day. I don't know what happened. What I do know is that something made your father's horse rear, and we think it was an arrow. I also know that someone kept Gaheris from venturing onto the field, and saved his life by doing so. But whether he made the shot or not, there _is_ a man out there who saved Gaheris that day. And we should all be grateful to him. I know that I am."

Mother's words should settle the argument.

Unfortunately…

"Ha! See? Even Mother agrees such a shot is impossible!"

…Gareth still has a bad habit of hearing the bits he likes and ignoring the rest of it, it seems. Gawain groans inwardly. Just when he thought the fight was settled…

"Oi, come on," he grumbles out loud, forcing a peace-making, 'can't we just all get along' smile as he steps forward – and, 'coincidentally', between his brothers' attempts to knock each other unconscious. "If this is a question about who's staying as my squire, does it really matter if that shot is truly possible or not?"

Gaheris freezes. Then his eyes, bright with tears he refuses to shed, turn upward.

"Even _you_ don't believe me?"

Gawain stares, uncertain of how Gaheris came to that conclusion.

Unfortunately, he can't exactly deny it. No matter how good the archer, he doesn't think any bow could have made that shot from where they found Gaheris afterwards.

And Gaheris can read the wince on his face, the too long silence as Gawain tries to find the words to explain that in a way that won't offer Gareth more fuel.

"But _I'm not lying!_ "

"Enough." Father's hand slices through the air, a maiming blow that cripples any further conversation. He gestures toward the farthest corner of the room. "An argument needs one mediator to help settle things, not three. Gaheris, Gareth. Stay where you are, and keep your mouths and hands to yourselves. Gawain, go try on your new cloak, and say thanks and farewell to your mother. We have wasted enough time that was intended for packing with this argument. We cannot stay much longer."

Disappointment is a bitter drink. But Father has spoken, and defying him now will make the argument flare again. Gawain nods in wordless understanding and obedience, and steps toward the corner, straightening his shoulders.

Mother takes a moment longer to follow. Father would never order a Queen around as if she was his knight, after all, so she has actually not been told to go anywhere or do anything.

But she follows the plea for assistance via non-participation in Father's eyes. Her smile for Father is an apology and hope for success in one complex quirk of the lips.

Her encouraging smile for her eldest son, as she turns to face him, is trimmed with sorrow at the eyes.

How can Gawain acknowledge such sadness? He's not so young as to still believe that his parents can fix anything and know everything. But he has no memories of his mother as anything less than confident, and he does not want to change that. He does not want to remember her crying, if she begins to cry.

So he does not look at the possible tears directly. He gives her an easy smile, one he has practiced to reassure his people. He keeps one eye and ear on his father and brothers, even as he lifts the cloak onto his shoulders and allows her to fuss with the fit and the drape of the cloth.

He is quiet, and he lets his parents do what they each do best. He lets Mother adjust his clothes and offer advice and confirm that he has not forgotten anything. He lets Father continue to mend the argument without interference, as his younger brothers grumble, and refuses to feel like a child sent to think on his errors in the corner. He knows Father does not mean to wound, only to keep them from muddying the problem further.

It is something he and Mother share, after all – the ability to say the right thing in the wrong way, and make whatever they were attempting to fix worse. Problems that require a solution of pure action are easy to resolve, by comparison – and all the rarer for it.

But the knowledge does nothing to lessen the ache.

"You and Gaheris must stick together, Gawain," Mother murmurs. The blond hair she's passed on to him, looped in a braid around her head to form a natural crown, only adds an illusion of extra height; she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach the cloak around his shoulders, and he is unable to bend to aid her without ruining the fit. While she's taller than King Arthur, there's not too much of a difference in their heights, and Gawain has become taller than his father in the last year.

"The High King's court is naturally isolating, and it is all too easy to find yourself alone in the crowd, unable to trust anyone for certain." Grey eyes impress her seriousness on him. "It isn't the way it is at home. Not just because you've switched from the lord's heir to an ordinary knight, either. I know you're not so fond of politics, but you have to learn to pay attention to them more, or else you'll find yourself easily manipulated once people have the measure of you."

Gawain huffs a soft laugh. "I hardly think I'm that important, Mother. And all I wish to do is serve my King as a sword and shield; why should he not maneuver me?"

Mother frowns. "I was not speaking of the king, or your duties as a knight. I speak of the rest of your life, and your duties as a knight-master to your squire, and your cares as an older brother."

"…Responsibility for others, rather than service to others. I see. Point taken."

It's not lost on Gawain that, once the rest of the family leaves, he will be both brother and guardian to Gaheris.

In some ways, it is as heavy as any oath he has made, and all the heavier for lack of words involved.

_All the same, after that argument… perhaps I should just be grateful I have only one to keep an eye on for now._

"I won't lose him, Mother. I promise. I'll take care of both of us."

It's still strange to be taller than her, but if it means he can set his hands on her shoulders for extra reassurance in this moment, he's grateful for it.

He needs the extra reassurance for himself, too, after all. While Gaheris is…competent with a sword, after years of work, he will never be a master of it. His preference for the bow is no secret. While that is fine for hunting, it means nothing for the fights that must be face to face.

Is it so wrong that Gawain wishes his brother to never bear the burden of that label, 'coward'?

Across the room, the argument seems to have settled into quiet grumbling. Hopefully, Father's managed to iron out the grudges rather than haul them to a truce of silence. Goodbyes with family should never come while you are angry.

When the knock comes at the door, Gawain expects it to be one of the guards to tell them the rest of the entourage is ready to leave, or possibly a servant to help bring the luggage down.

It is neither.

At first glance, she's a noblewoman, possibly foreign. _Not_ one he remembers meeting or even seeing at any of the wedding festivities, oddly enough, and given the shimmer of her gown, she'd obviously be one of the wealthier guests. Blue silk that ripples and shimmers like a lake stirred by an unseen breeze.

Though no one has opened the window, the air gains an additional weight, something between the anticipation of a summer storm and the clinging damp of dew before sunrise.

The guest is taller than most women, though nowhere near as tall as Gawain or Father, with a slender, willowy build that the dress both accentuates and hides, the cloth made opaque by innumerable layers of transparency. Her hair twists and hangs in rippling curls, long as a waterfall, hanging loose as a maid's – black on her head, but lightening to blue and silver and white of morning mist where it falls past her hips.

Mother turns, eyes wide with recognition.

Blue silk whispers over the ground with the rustling of a brook rushing over river stones smoothed by the water; beneath the edges of the dress, a flash of bare feet are exposed, and hidden just as quickly. Water lilies and reeds, a subtle perfume, tickle Gawain's nose, and he fights to neither wrinkle it nor let a sneeze escape.

"Lady Vivian." Mother curtsies. Behind them, Father stands, and offers a deep bow – not quite so deep as that for the king, but fairly close. His hands press on the shoulders of the boys, pushing them to mimic him.

Gawain needs no such cue, even if he doesn't know who she is. He is already bowing, the respect instinctive regardless of a name.

"…It has been long since last I saw you, little Morgause. You were scarcely a maid, then, and now you have become a woman with sons half-grown to manhood." The voice soothes, a natural lullaby, waves lapping the shore.

"While you, Lady Vivian, of course, have not aged a day, any more than since the first time I met you as a little girl." Mother takes no offense whatsoever to 'little Morgause', not even a twitch.

"I would meet your sons."

In every word exists the intensity of a thousand raindrops constantly striking the surface of a pool at intermittent intervals – important only in their equal unimportance, made greater when their influence combines to raise the water level. Gawain is surprised at his own poetry on the matter. Then he remembers his manners, and carefully rises to his feet. He will _not_ scramble and embarrass himself as his brothers do.

However old she may or may not be, this is a being that does not waste time on unimportant matters – or at least not when the matters are _human_ concerns.

He isn't quite sure how he knows this, and if someone asked him to explain, he would doubtless be about as successful as he might at trying to instruct another person on sword-fighting with words and theory alone, no physical practice allowed.

But that doesn't make him any less certain of the knowledge.

"My eldest, Gawain." Mother beckons him forward, and their guest extends a hand to him.

"My lady." Taking her extended hand, Gawain bows over it, careful not to bring his lips too near, and his fingers within her palm – courteous and welcoming, no hint of flirtation – before he straightens to face her.

Eyes of a midnight sky, filled with the stars' reflections. If nothing else indicated her lack of humanity, this would surely reveal it. No human has eyes like this.

Gawain swallows hard, grateful that protocol allows him to let go of her hand at this point. He tries not to drop it too quickly before he steps back. Guingalet is one thing, but this lady is a being of quite another category.

"And my younger two, Gaheris and Gareth," Mother continues. "Lot, you already know."

"Yes… Lot, I remember." Eyelashes flutter closed for a moment over those eyes, a near-perfect mask of humanity. The smile beneath is mirthful. "Helping you slip away from Uther's wrath together is one of my… fonder reminiscences. The 'Terrible Dragon' really did need to learn that he was not the only one with final say of 'Yes' and 'No', and who was I to deny a young couple in need of aid to officiate their match?"

Gawain mentally groans. He is _more than aware_ of the circumstances of his parents' marriage, as well as his grandfather's blatant disapproval of the matter – though 'disapproval' is akin to calling the Vore Tullye a light drizzle with a breeze to accompany it – as well as the fact that his own birth is… slightly on the early side. But he _does not need_ the images that their visitor's words conjure up, now or at any time! Particularly not when both his parents are _flushing_ at her words!

Thankfully, it seems to go over his brothers' heads.

"Be that as it may… I helped you, and now I would have your eldest help me, as partial repayment of the debt." Lady Vivian's eyes flutter open, and her gaze holds him to the spot.

"Tell me, child, you've taken vows as a knight to defend the realm and king, correct?"

Gawain nods, cautiously. He's unsure where this is going, so soon after talk of debts and repayment.

Lady Vivian tilts her head forward, letting her midnight-to-white locks obscure her face, so that all he can see in the shadows are the stars trapped in her eyes.

"Then answer this: Who and what will your blade attack? What conditions are necessary for victory, before you may return it to the scabbard?"

Gawain blinks.

But… shouldn't the answer to that already be clear?

Perhaps not, he realizes. Every one of his vows as a knight focuses on the necessity of _defending_ his liege and country, _defending_ peace and truth. Yes, there is an understanding of what a knight may be called upon to do, but less clear is the target of the blade's wrath.

"I have sworn an oath to my king as a knight, to defend the realm and the king," he says at last. "My blade will attack enemies to the peace, the laws, the ideals of the kingdom. It will attack the abominations that would threaten such. Therefore, my sword is a tool to defeat the king's enemies, and it will attack any that have named themselves as enemy to the king, or that the king has named as enemies."

That's clear enough, he thinks. It's the second part that worries him.

His little brothers' argument dwelled on both sword skill and knowing when _not_ to use a sword. They're both listening now. If he gives a wrong answer… he may hurt one of them, or both.

How to answer?

"Just as I draw my sword against the king's foes, so I myself am a 'sword' of the king, to be drawn and wielded at his direction," he continues. "The conditions necessary for it to return to the scabbard are victory or the king's order. Victory, therefore, will be achieved when the threat I drew my blade against is eliminated."

Lady Vivian waits a moment, as if to be sure that he's finished talking.

When he doesn't continue, she frowns. "Then what constitutes a threat?"

"…That is for the King to decide." Perhaps not the strongest answer he could offer, but Gawain is sure of the truth in it.

"And if the King is not there to decide?"

"…The laws the King creates would decide in his absence." He means it to be a statement, but it comes out more hesitant and questioning than he intended.

"…I suppose that will have to do," Lady Vivian sighs after a moment. "Not as full an answer as I might wish, but since _Arthur_ is the King in question, I will have to trust the Pendragon's judgment. And… the threat is too close for you to be left without a suitable weapon."

Her skirt falls about her in endless folds, swirling as she steps forward. She reaches into one shadowy drape – and _pulls_.

Gawain has just time to fling up a hand to cover his eyes before the brightness overwhelms the room.

When his eyes adjust, and he lowers the hand –

_How?_

Balanced on outstretched palms is a sword.

If it were not for the color and the different fairy runes, Gawain would think it the sword of his king.

The blade is shaped straight and true, a dark blue hilt and a matching blue guard, and all the rest of it silver, glowing white-hot – the sun at its height on Midsummer's Day, equally dangerous to all in its heat and fury.

"Take care when you use this, sun-child," the Lady murmurs, pressing it into numb hands. "For you will scorch the land, not just your enemies, if you use its full potential."

Gawain stares at the blade, unsure what to say. "This is…"

"Galantine." A note of cool amusement enters the woman's – no, the Fairy's – voice, a brook rippling shallowly over stones. "I suggest you find an empty field to test it out in _before_ you use it in combat. The best effects will be, of course, when the sun is up."

Even as his fingers instinctively curl to grip the hilt, and he marvels at the perfect balance of the blade, Gawain forces himself to stop, and meet her gaze. "Why give this to me?"

Behind him, Father exhales in relief.

Fairies are…exacting, when it comes to debts owed and truths told. It is best to be certain that no bargain has been made that one is not aware of, particularly when Lady Vivian explicitly spoke of debts and repayments. Before he accidentally enters a new one by taking up this blade.

She stares at him in surprise. "One cannot wield this blade unless favored by the sun – else it would burn a man to death. Physically and spiritually, your… blessing makes you compatible." Her spine straightens, and though he is taller, Gawain is certain that she is looking down her nose at him. "You were always going to have this eventually. Make no mistake; I would prefer a greater certainty that you were ready for its responsibility. But now… all I know is that you will need it soon, as humans count time. Best to give it to you now so you have a chance to get used to it before you need it."

The lady's pale lips curve into a smile, and Gawain inwardly shudders. She's fair, yes, but too pale, he realizes now: not the moon-shimmer skin of some of the selkies he caught a glimpse of on occasion when learning to swim, but closer to the paleness of a drowned woman, complete with the blue undertone, if missing the bloating. It… disquiets him.

Before Gawain can formulate another question, she steps past him towards his mother.

"I'd best leave now. Hasten your own trip, little Morgause; it's no good to be caught out in a coming storm without shelter."

When his brothers bow over her hand in farewell, the only thing that keeps him from tearing them away is the assurance that Mother would _never_ risk her children in the presence of a magical danger. The charm-patterns she weaves and sews into their clothes for identification and protection alike will ensure that.

Then she's gone, out the door with scarcely a swish of her skirts to herald her passage.

"Well," Father says after a long moment, "far be it from me to ignore a fairy warning of a threat. You'd best practice with that sword, Gawain. See you step up your practices as well, Gaheris. The rest of us need to finish packing – I want to be out of here in an hour."

"A threat? But all she talked about was a storm, right?" Gareth looks confused.

Father snorts. "A _water-dweller_ warning about a storm, and you think it's not a threat? I certainly can't leave you here if _that's_ what you think. Pack your bags, Gareth. We leave within an hour."

* * *

Dark green eyes flicker open.

With the useful bit of the conversation finished, there is no further need to make use of its eyes and ears. Thus, the magus has ordered the crow familiar to leave before it is noticed, and allowed herself to return to her own senses. Stretching her arms above her head and feeling the drag of her sleeves, she recalls the freedom of wings for a long moment, comparing it to the absolute heaviness of her own body's bones.

Her mare lifts its head from where it has been nibbling the grass. The moment is broken, the information recalled, and her temper simmers dangerously.

Standing from her blankets under a tree, Morgan spares a thought to activate an additional Bounded field around the animal, to safeguard it from any… side effects, before walking a short distance away.

The sapling she's chosen is the same height as her sibling. It should suit her purposes admirably, even if it's suffered more than a bit of damage at this point from her… previous whims.

Staring at it for a moment, Morgan flicks her wrist, empty-handed.

She's over a yard away from the tree. Nothing should be affected from batting the air.

Yet, even as her hand moves, the bark splits.

A perfect cut. Sap drips out from the split bark. Were this a person, Morgan would have cut the jugular vein with that control. Arterial spurts of scarlet would follow.

The next flick is lower, messier. Disembowelment. Slow agony.

Morgan le Fay is a princess, trained in healing and spell-casting for years. She knows the human body well. Knows all the ways it can be taken apart, or fall apart.

(And the ways it may be made to disobey.)

She is a princess, trained to see years ahead in political and military matters. She has plotted the details of her success for years, and adapted to changes and new players. She has never known anything but victory and success.

Except in the one matter that matters the most.

It's a rare person who remembers much of Queen Ana, these days. Uther's first wife, much neglected. Her first child to survive infancy was Morgause, and it would be seven years before another girl-child, Morgan, could match the feat.

Morgan remembers little of her mother, dead with her latest stillborn attempt at a son three years after Morgan entered the world.

She remembers much more of the woman who replaced the mother she never knew, and her memories do not reflect the cowardice the Queen Mother shows now, running off to a covenant and sealing her voice for the rest of her days.

Looking back, Morgan supposes that she always knew Igraine had little, if any, choice in her marriage to Uther. Not that anyone would begin to explain the true depth to the young seven-year-old she once was, but somehow she knew on one level or another. If this burdened Igraine, she showed hardly any sign of it. Morgan idly wonders if, maybe, her stepmother somehow tricked herself into loving her father.

Uther Pendragon was... difficult to describe, to say the least.

He was a good king; of that, Morgan is sure. Ruling with an iron fist, forcing the petty kings to stay united against the threat of Saxons and Picts that the Romans had abandoned them to when their alliance threatened to fall apart in the wake of his elder brother Aurelius' death, and their younger brother's betrayal to the foreigners. A warrior who set aside their ancestry of 'Ambrosius' for his personal sobriquet, Pendragon. A fierce and charismatic warrior-commander who constantly drove his brother's mercenary forces away on land, allowing enough time for crops and children to grow to adulthood, even if he could not prevent the Saxons from returning in new ships, determined to claim the land promised them.

It is that part of the man that she used to idolize so.

As a King, he deserved that opinion, inflated though it might be – a man whose only lack, in the face of his brother's treachery, was a male heir.

As a father, he was sorely lacking.

It took him shipping her off to a nunnery and disinheriting her, after she refused to accept a betrothal to a minor king, to realize this, and for that she almost loathes herself and her past foolishness as much as she does Uther.

How could she ever think that her obvious skill with magic, all signs of her draconic inheritance running through her blood and eyes, could be enough for him to overlook the lack of a spear between her thighs?

Another slash, this one at groin level. A successful, surgical, gelding.

But in Morgan's childhood mind, it was only logical to assume that she would gain the crown. Particularly once it was clear that her dear sister, the only obstacle of birth, was thoroughly enthralled by Lot.

Morgan prefers not to think on all the signs of infatuation that her lovelorn sister failed to hide from everybody except Uther, though. She cringes even now while remembering all the kisses she would catch if she was so unlucky as to round a certain corner.

_A hostage whose only redeeming feature was his inheritance, a string of rocky islands that only profited in sheep, fish, and its strategic positioning? Really, sister, you could have done so much better. Why choose to willingly be a brood mare?_

No, it is much more pleasant to remember all of the hours Morgause would spend with _her_ instead.

Oh, how the days would seem to fly when her big sister, more mother than their stepmother had ever managed to be, snuck her out of the castle under the noses of the guards. They would ride across empty fields, stop in meadows and braid one another's golden-blonde and raven's-wing locks between their fingers, weaving in the wildflowers they'd gather after counting who had gathered the most. How many of the nights following those days did Morgause indulge her sister with a late night trip to the kitchens for midnight snacks? How many stories of magic and fairies had she told the little girl, who had yet to realize that she held those same gifts?

And foolish though she may be, Morgause is the only one she could have trusted to keep the secret of Morgan's child.

Could have… but no longer can. Not while things have fallen out so differently from what Morgan has planned for and predicted.

A pass of the thumb through the air heals the mark of disembowelment. A double slash follows, ripping open a womb. Saving the child, but universally fatal to the mother in this age, unless one is _very_ skilled at healing magecraft.

Fitting. It is the very manner her plans have been neatly near unraveled before coming to fruition.

When she heard that Igraine's bastard, contrary to years of rumor, had _not_ died within minutes of first breathing air, but instead was battling Vortigern – and with success unseen against since their father's death – Morgan thought it a pretender. A last ditch effort to save the island, using the Pendragon name to help rally the men to their banner, combined with a boy of Uther's coloring and enough skill to make an appropriate symbol, and a masterful commander behind the scenes. Understandable, if an utter insult to her name and heritage, despise her father though she might these days. Morgan would avenge the smirch on the Pendragon name eventually. In the meantime, he would make an admirable gnat to distract Vortigern, while she tested the Usurper's defenses, probing for a weak spot in the old man's hide.

Then she learned that the Magus of Flowers backed this 'Arthur'. That was enough to deserve a discrete… investigation.

What she found enraged her. Especially since, in the time since she began the investigation, Arthur's battle prowess had become even more secure. So much so that it had begun to harm the loosely-knit alliance her brother-in-law had encouraged – an alliance that had held the Saxons in a stalemate, if one that slowly lost ground to the invaders, in the years since Uther's death.

In Morgan's mind, Lot's utter lack of suitability for her sister is balanced in three redeeming qualities: his own awareness that he is beneath the Pendragon bloodline, his according worship of Morgause, and his refusal to roll over and allow the Usurper to take Albion at his own pace.

Yet his claim to the throne was not one she could tolerate. They might both want a united kingdom, but no matter how happy he made Morgause, she could not let him stand and infringe on her rightful property. Man or no man, Morgan had the dragon's blood, more than her father or either of her uncles, and with it the strong ancestral connection to the land. Kingship by divine right, and gender be damned. Let a mere human soldier take so much as a cup from her horde, or an acre of land from her Albion? No, Lot would not live a moment longer than he was useful to her.

How fortunate, then, when rumors sprang up that Vortigern's ship foundered in its escape from the battlefield, and the severe storms that caused the wreck keeping Albion temporarily isolated for the most part from further Saxon ships, that Lot had refused to bow to the prospective king, an unknown whose lineage and proof of legitimacy was founded entirely on the basis of the word of a half-incubus Magus and a sword-test that may have been rigged by said Magus.

Lot has never forgotten Merlin's efforts to have Morgause safely betrothed to someone out of the country, refusing to acknowledge Lot's efforts to court her honorably and in public. The fact that the couple had to elope and flee Uther's wrath, rather than openly and honorably marry with Uther's blessing, _may_ not be _entirely_ Merlin's doing… but he certainly encouraged betrothals and marriages that would leave the realm without a suitable heir living in Albion, given Uther's lack of sons.

If Merlin's efforts were successful… wouldn't the path to the throne be even clearer for 'Arthur,' after all?

Snarling, Morgan rakes both hands through the air. Crisscrossing welts stripe the trembling sapling, left with only fragments of bark here and there, barely holding itself together under her efforts.

Lot is a fool, and he has no business claiming any part of Albion, or any sort of crown. Though he might hold the other eleven claimants to their allegiance against the latest strongest contender for now, he had no chance of victory.

Not against Arthur. Arthur, who won men to his side with his actions and words, and had consistently pushed Vortigern back, even at the start, when Vortigern's forces outnumbered Arthur's by fifty to one. Not once has Arthur known retreat. Not once have his enemies known victory since the latest 'Pendragon' stepped onto the field.

Morgan was not a fool. If Arthur could win against Vortigern, Lot would not prove a challenge in anything. And given Lot's stubborn refusal to admit his disadvantage, or back down on any matter concerning his family's protection…

Well. If he chose to believe Vortigern was dead, and challenge the Pendragon who would eventually manage the Usurper's true destruction, Morgan was hardly going to waste her energy on dissuading him from it.

Naturally, Morgause would be furious and angry, ready to do anything she could to avenge her beloved husband, even against her own kin. But Morgause was a mother, and would not endanger her sons with her own thirst for vengeance, nor hinder their choices. So she would be trapped on Orkney to stew in her own grief, while her sons grew to manhood and eventually made their own choices and own way in the world.

But while Morgause would never endanger her sons with _active_ rebellion, she would be more than willing to turn a blind eye to someone hiding from Arthur, so long as they did not harm her small clan.

It was only a matter of time, and Morgan knew her sister. She would gladly hide Morgan, ask for no details, and never breathe a word.

Just as Morgan had done, as best she could as a child, when her supposedly maiden sister began avoiding breakfast, as well as any greasy meal, and adjusted her dresses to hide any changes.

Morgan helped to hide Gawain's existence beneath her sister's dresses until his parents were safely wed, and all she got for it was abandonment, in a court determined to watch her every moment and betroth and marry her as quickly as possible in her sister's place!

Morgause owes her for that experience. A child to be hidden in turn is not something she can deny as a debt owed. And the father is unavailable, thanks to the meddling of Merlin and Arthur, Morgause would never ask questions of her grieving little sister.

Except then Lot ended up with a crippling injury rather than a fatal one, and recovered enough that no one would expect or believe infection to have hidden in the wound without being spotted. Morgan could change that, of course, but it was too late for such a death to happen and believably be the fault of Arthur's forces.

Lot would recover, though, and return to war. Morgan was certain of it. He was stubborn that way. And Arthur would execute him for it, during or after the battle. All Morgan would have to do was wait. He would not back down and surrender.

But Lot did just that. Not only did he surrender and give up his crown, but he signed a peace treaty that he could not honorably escape, ever! And he approved his heir's desertion from the responsibilities of Orkney, to become his once-foe's knight instead!

Morgan had hoped to mend things when she travelled to the wedding. Perhaps her sister would hide her after all, if she was discreet about it and changed a few details of the intended story. But that knighthood…

No. Morgause can never be trusted again. Morgan is grateful that she never revealed her presence at the wedding, now.

Not to anyone that mattered, anyway. And in this case, the only people who mattered would be Morgause, Lot, and the Magus of Flowers. A spell-caster and her mundane spouse… and one of the three great casters of Albion.

No one without some reasonable level of power would see or remember her. And no one who wielded so much as a single spell willingly stays at the court these days a moment longer than they had to, lest they risk competing with Merlin for territory or accidentally interfering with his plans. Few are willing to risk even staying in the city limits.

There are only two forces in Albion that can openly challenge and match Merlin in his own field these days with naught but their own power. Maybe. Provided the Magus did not bring backup, and one had the advantage of surprise.

Of course, when one's foe is able to see the future, thwarting him is an extra challenge.

Thus, Morgan had prepared well in advance for him.

If he expected to See Guinevere and Arthur bedding down on their wedding night… why, then, why should he pay any attention, if that was exactly what he Saw?

Her rage cooling at the memory, she smirks in satisfaction, allowing the quivering tree to crumple to the ground in a pile of leaves and splinters.

Since her once target is now useless for anything more than kindling, and the worst of thought-blinding possessive fury is dispersed in the act of destruction, Morgan moves to the next stage of her rages: she cleans up, wasting nothing. Be it blood or bone or bark, Morgan leaves no evidence of her passing for another mage to make use of. Ever. Sweeping the kindling-splinters that are the only evidence of the sapling's existence into a neat pile, she lights it, and sets a small cookpot over it to boil water.

Even if Merlin can see everything, there is no reason for him to look at his king's bedroom, or even within Camelot, if he cannot sense magecraft there.

Unlike some magi, Morgan's plans do not rely entirely on her art, no matter how skilled she is at Shapeshifting. There are plenty of mundane methods of disguise that carry no such trace, after all.

That Merlin never once considers such a means to get around his protections is only proof of his fatal overspecialization in Magic. Much the same as his pupil is made to overspecialize in winning war and administrating the logical machine that one expects an ideal kingdom to be. Leaving no method to deal with the unexpected except for violence.

Morgan smiles at her own reflection in the pot, before laying out her herbs.

Dyeing hair as dark as hers, including the eyebrows, can be difficult, but very much worth it.

After that, it was a simple matter of sneaking into the city, quite openly, as one of the many guests. Even simpler to give one of the chambermaids a mild illness, and take her place.

All she needed magecraft for was to set up a Bounded Field in the dressing room. Knocking the new queen out took nothing but a few herbs to induce slumber, and then a bit of Transformation, with the model of her disguise sleeping in front of her.

And with that Transformation, why should Merlin, or even Arthur, notice the difference?

Only he did.

She did not intend to collect the materials she needed so early in the wedding week, though her preparations to distract the Magus had been sufficient to cover the entire seven days of festivities, lest she miss an opportune moment.

But she did not expect Morgause to attend the wedding in her husband's company, either, or approve her son's knighthood. And if there is any who might identify Morgan merely by the shape of her plots, the tricks of her mind, the misdirections of her spells – it is her sister.

A sister she can no longer trust. A sister who, quite plainly, has forgotten who deserves to hold the honor of the Pendragon name, if she will allow Gawain to give his loyalty to an incubus' pawn. A sister who just may give away every secret Morgan has trusted her with, without even realizing it.

Arthur proves a thief once more. Morgan is enough of a dragon to have no tolerance for thieves taking her possessions, even if she has no use for them. Morgause is _her_ sister, and lacking in ambition and pride though the Orkney Queen might be, Morgan will not forget this.

There are two ways to respond to such a theft. Preferably, one reacquires the stolen object, and makes sure the perpetrator is unable to repeat the theft. If this is not possible, then one may steal something in return.

Morgan is not so weak as to let a thief get away without consequences, nor to fail to inform him the why and wherefore of such.

So, when she realized that both Merlin and Morgause were there, and both were ready to demonstrate loyalty to Arthur by gifting the so-called King with more men, she determined to act more swiftly than she ever had before.

The longer she stayed, the greater the chance of something going wrong.

Even then, there had been no need to let anyone see her.

Morgan can only blame herself for letting her temper slip its leash as it did, galling though the admittance is. Even if she had spotted two unpleasant surprises in the course of a few hours.

First, Arthur was observant enough to realize that something was wrong. That speaks to a far better knowledge of the queenly bride than expected. Few highborn couples meet before their wedding day, and rarely are such meetings less than public. As long as Morgan had gotten the bride's appearance correct down to the freckles, there should have been no issue.

And yet she had been identified as an impostor almost immediately.

The second surprise of course… is the complications of the fertility magic already at work… and the realization that provoked.

A little sister, rather than a little brother, hm? She didn't expect that.

It enrages her, naturally.

It enraged her to the point that Morgan not only allowed her transformation to slip, but became careless enough to name herself to her foe. She had never intended Arthur to know 'he' had slept with anyone but his queen. Morgan only realized she hadn't so much as bothered to block the memory of the King until a few days after fleeing the city, long after returning to fix her error was possible.

It's beneath a Queen, really, to become so easily irritated at a gadfly's sting.

And yet…

How on earth is that bit of straw worth a farthing more than Morgan?

Morgan trained just as much to become a ruler, walked among her people and known their grievances – known the very _land's_ grievances – from the same age she knew to read, has years more experience on her side in how to make and maintain a peace. She knows how to stop a war before it starts, with assassination and illnesses and madness, and how to win one that has been started. She knows how to be ruthless.

And she has learned it all on her own, earned respect from teachers on her own merit, without a jot of support from her family.

Arthur may have been more extensively trained, but if all of it is handed to the secret heir, does it really have so much value? Learning by rote, without even struggling for the right to learn, and without practical experience in ruling other people, makes for an easily doomed reign.

But more than one unsuitable king gains a crown by virtue of a worthy father or grandfather who earned it for him.

Here, they are somewhat equal, Morgan will grudgingly admit. They both have Uther's bloodline. But Morgan inherited her draconic traits naturally, and trained them on her own, _without_ a Magus' intervention to ensure such traits appeared and flowered and bloomed. Morgan has always known she had a connection to the Isle of Albion, even if she hasn't always known what to call it. This little girl might be a dragon in human skin in some respects, but she has no idea what to do with that power of hers.

'Arthur' would never be able to make the very land rise up against its enemies, as might the kings of old.

Morgan… would require a little preparation to do so, and might risk barrenness from the strain – but she _can_ do that. It wouldn't be very pleasant, but she _can_ , if she doesn't mind causing at least a month of widespread drought and crop failure for every hour she maintains it, and burning out her own abilities permanently if she uses it too long.

'Arthur' would need the Magus to do it all for 'him.' Or something similar, anyway, given that particular attack was reserved for the Kings who trained for it, according to the legends.

"How very clever, Magus," Morgan mutters aloud, checking on her pot and finding it almost ready to boil. "To make yourself an indispensable part of the court, a requirement for victory against any spell-caster or supernatural being with minor talent and a grudge. So indispensable…I wonder, what _would_ the young King do without you? If he could do anything at all, that is?"

Her reflection smiles back, within the pot, her skin rippling for a moment, before Morgan halts the instinctive magical disguise.

Favorite spell or not, she cannot risk transforming like that again until after her current project is stable. Not even a surface alteration to her face.

Another monitoring spell to the clump beneath her abdomen pronounces it currently stable. The most important element of the plan, the entire reason that she's willingly returned to the pretender's court. Secure, and safe… for now.

Morgan cannot return to her usual haunts – too many magic users gossip, and a pregnancy is always _congratulated_ and _fussed over_ and _despaired of_. Particularly the last, if there is no father in sight.

She has no intention of waiting a decade and a half for this experiment to reach results, and that, too, will require privacy.

Were the situation been any less important, any less risky, Morgan would delay it until she can locate a new hiding spot, or even drop it entirely, perhaps.

But this is not so. There would be no better chance – and so, she struck, even without security for afterwards.

And now she has no safehouse to raise the brat in, with neighbors who would despise Arthur as much as herself and hold their tongues to outsiders while passing on their views toward the child.

How is such misfortune even possible?

Still, she will not abandon her plan. She will simply have to find a safe house on her own. The major steps of the plan are still workable, despite complete alteration of the preliminary precautions.

Orkney was ideal! Isolated, insular, suspicious of outsiders! It had taken Morgause _years_ to gain her subjects' trust when Lot brought his bride home. But she was beloved now, and her sister would have been equally welcomed, widowed by a 'husband' who fell in battle alongside Lot and leaving a child behind. They would gladly have kept her hidden from the forces of the man who'd killed their king.

Except Lot is alive. Allied with Arthur. And no opportunity to arrange his death in a way that would point fingers to the Pendragon King.

 _It's her fault. The bastard's fault. And the Magus', too._ Nothing else can explain this incredible string of misfortunes.

… _Why did I even leave her alive once I got what I needed?_

Because of Vortigern, Morgan reminds herself. That man needs killing, or there will not be an Albion left for _anyone_ to rule. As much as she hates to admit it, her bastard half-sibling is the best weapon to stop Vortigern the island has.

Once Morgan's mad uncle is gone, however…

A weird smile twists lips, dark as a half-dead red rose drying in a vase.

"Kinslayer. That's who you'll be then, when he lies bleeding from your weapons."

A grin that should not exist on a woman still living.

_No man is more accursed than the kinslayer._

She may have been forced to accept that the people will never see a woman, let alone a witch, on the throne in her own right. But Morgan _refuses_ to let that stop her.

 _No man loses more in law, in life, in trust. In vulnerability to vengeance_.

After all, it wouldn't do not to look after her own blood.

_Particularly in the rules of magic._

"Fear not, uncle. You'll be avenged… most fittingly."

* * *

Far from Albion's shores, there lies a gloomy harbor.

Busy with grim men and women, rebuilding a fleet, repairing the tattered remains of what ships they have left. Building new ships, weaving sails. A people whose only glorious death is in battle.

Waiting to strike, the hunger for vengeance and glory and conquest aching in their bellies and curdling their mead.

It is a people preparing for war.

No. It is a people that are always at war.

They have become too crowded in their towns, and they cannot war on each other much longer with any profit. Feeding on each other's resources would only speed their end with no profit for any.

That is why they entered the service of this foreigner, married to one of their daughters, who has promised them land if they will aid him in his vengeance. He kept his word, too, until his foe reappeared and drove them back across the sea, storms howling at their heels, hounds on the hunt.

A foe whose success is not due to honorable war, but to his ally, an unmanly mage with tricks and deceptions!

They will have it back. All of it.

And so, they weave their sails and carve their oars and sand their boards, singing of the tribute they will exact from these foolish land-men.

In one house, overlooking the harbor, a man lies on a bed. Aged by war and illness and the ravages of time, but with limbs still strong and supple, and traces of red remaining in his beard if not atop his graying head.

A circlet lies on the table next to the bed. In the man's hand is a stone jar that he cradles close in sleep.

His face twists in rage, in dreams. The furs on his bed rise and fall with his breaths, but stir as if a great wind pounded the room.

He is sleeping, but he gains no rest.

Lighting blazes beyond the shutters, turning the man's red-brown hair to gray and the gray streaks to white for an instant, before dark shadows returns to the room, a crack of thunder like a splitting main mast nipping at its heels.

He's old without the quality of either agelessness or ancient beyond measure. His hair is graying, the color leeched entirely from his head but still fighting to hold onto his beard. His eyes are crinkled, more from frowns and strong winds than smiling. His muscles are wiry from years of lifting sword and spear and shield, clinging strong to aged bones.

This is the man they have sworn themselves to. For glory and revenge.

He dreams old dreams, dreams of years past. Dreams of the years that shaped him, cutting until the man grew from the shards of the boy that was.

He was a brother once. A boy who frowned at the brothers who led their people to war again and again, holding them together without a Rome to bind them. A youth who helped bring in the harvest, and scowled at the grain crushed before its time under an army's trampling hooves and boots. A place that scarred the land and starved the people, where only the powerful profited, and nothing remained sacrosanct.

A world without any logic he could follow.

Yet when he questioned, he was deemed a child for not understanding at first – then a coward, too old and still daring to question, for not understanding instinctively.

He was almost a lover, once. As a youth, troubled one evening, he walked on the beach, and saw a maid dancing skyclad beneath the moon, a sealskin to one side, half hidden by a rock. A maid with dusky skin and liquid brown eyes. More beautiful than any highborn lady or pretty milkmaid or well-trained whore.

All it would have taken was a stolen sealskin to bind her, and he might have made her his wife.

He turned and walked away instead.

To capture a wild thing for one's own pleasure, knowing she will return to the sea at the first opportunity? Any warrior or fisherman would have done that, with no care for how the seal-bride would despise her husband for it.

Vortigern would never do it.

This world was the Fair Folk's, he was certain of it. All humans did was spoil it.

He hated that he was one of them. All he could do in recompense was ensure he and his people took as little as they might, and returned much as repayment.

Such tactics were not the way to secure glory for self or for clan. A more sensible ruling family might approve of the lack of troublesome ambition, but the Pendragons feared their enemies would take it as a weak point instead.

Eventually, he was given a small tribe to lead. It placed him out of the way of his brothers' manipulations. Or rather, out of his interference with them.

From them, he learned the old stories of the ancient kings, that had faded under Rome's leadership. How a dragon once fell in love with a mortal woman, taking human form to stay at her side, and from their line descended a line of kings that could bind their peoples against any threat. A line that could call upon the land itself as an ally against their foes.

He married to cement his hold on the tribe.

Unexpectedly, it was the one time in his life he found himself happy.

The furs clench in his sleeping grasp.

He married for politics and necessity, not because his bride was attractive or witty, and while she was a good companion, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about her until the end, when she gave him a gift. He could not help but love his son, his mother taking her last breath as the bairn cried his first.

Vortimer was his image in physical miniature, stocky and sturdy as a Welsh pony. He made friends with the Fair Folk and the humans of various tribes alike. He could and would race the winds up the hills, climbing the cliffs one-handed. Egging his friends to heights of greater daring, before swimming the lake and coming out to shake himself dry like a great hound. A mind keen enough to win riddle contests of seven hours and more, and a knack for both the hunt of war and the parleys of peace that would serve the future well. If he had a fault, it was his own lack of caution, but that would come with age and experience, surely?

If Vortigern's jaded heart ever held hope that humans might be better, some day… it would be due to his son.

But Vortimer had fallen, caught by treachery, for daring to befriend a boy who did not speak his tongue. Always so fearless, and never thinking there might be a need to guard himself among those he thought his friends.

For that – his father would gladly fall to the mania that had plagued him in a constant assault since his childhood.

The third Pendragon son might not outwardly display the traits of the dormant dragon's blood, nor possess even the slightest spark of magic from his ancestors. Yet he holds the possessiveness over a hoard that is instinctive to his fire-breathing ancestors, and the dragon's response – the dragon's _only_ response – to thieves.

It was a Welshman who took his son, luring Vortimer into a friendly tavern game of drinking, then betraying him as soon as his target was cross-eyed with ale and a pretty tavern wench's banter. Vortigern would not be merciful – the murderer was guilty, and so were all who would shelter him.

He pursues his target with his men to a hilltop in Wales, with a prosperous if secluded town and a half-ruined keep beneath it.

When he reaches Mount Erith, and corners the man… the death is slow and painful.

Strung up on a tree by the wrists and left to dangle there while every tendon is cut, followed by a deliberately botched disembowelment and an all too correct castration. Finally, simultaneous strangulation, a slit throat, and the brains dashed out of the skull.

Justice for the dead, visited on the murderer is but the first step. A different fate awaits the villagers.

Vortigern had already been planning to move his once-small settlement, prosperous after years of rule. This hill will do very well, regardless that it is nowhere near the land he had been appointed to guard.

His warriors round up the village men, disarming the few who resisted as an example, and throw them at his feet.

"You sheltered my son's murderer. I will not leave you unwatched again. You will build my watchtower, on that hill. You will build until your backs give out and your fingers break, and then you will _keep working_ … or I will remove what little mercy I have granted to your supposed innocents."

There are no innocents in a world where a father buries his adult son. Women and children, innocent? They are the most devious survivors when left without protectors, made all the more deadly by those who see them as lacking teeth and claws.

Vortigern is not so blind. Not anymore. No woman will acquire mercy through her cunt, no child by its size will be acquitted.

The men set to work, quarrying the stone, from dawn till dusk, the dust of crushed gravel mixing with blood on their knuckles, until they seem half made of earth. They do not stop for meals, yanked from their beds too early to grab so much as a ploughman's lunch to eat as they work. They work until they drop from exhaustion, and then the soldiers rouse them with red welts of pain across their backs.

The women and children do not linger idly. Babes too young to toddle are bound to their mother's backs, or cared for by the lame and crippled, while their mothers load stout Welsh ponies with the stones, and lead them to the mountainous path upward.

By the time darkness forbids further work, the foundations are dug and erected, and the tower is halfway done.

The workers collapse on their cottage floors, barely able to swallow the half burnt porridge made by children who have no idea how to cook it, following it with scraps of yesterday's bread. There had been no one to make more food, and they're all too tired to prepare more.

The avenging father's smile stretch thinning skin over his face. It is not quite a skull's grin, but the missing teeth in odd spaces add to the ghoulish shadows in the dusk.

When the tower is complete, the high ground will be his to control. No one will dislodge him from this stronghold. No assassin can enter without notice. Vortigern is wise to such tricks now.

He goes to sleep contented, a clear view of the tower from his tent, and dreams bloody dreams.

When he steps outside at dawn, he frowns in confusion at the hill's silhouette, proud and grassy, bare against the sky. Then he sees the tumble of stones, a collapsed and ill-built cairn.

His snarl shakes the village, rousing the trembling prisoners before his men can yank them from their beds.

"You think to rebel with carelessness, ho? You will do it again. _Properly_ , this time. Or there will be consequences."

The children stand in the center of the village, guarded by his most loyal men. If some of his soldiers eye him strangely, Vortigern takes no notice. The battle fever is upon him, and he drives the men personally, working them harder. Half of them rebuild from what stones can be salvaged, half of them mine stronger rock.

By noon, they have reconstructed all that was lost. By dusk, two men are near dead of exhaustion and the sun, and their wives cry over them. Vortigern sneers in triumph. The stonework of the tower is finished, and light is needed to cut wood and other materials for the rest of the building.

Still, he does not rest. He assigns six soldiers to sleep in shifts and watch for sabotage.

Yet it is all for naught. Some hours after midnight, Vortigern is shaken awake. One look outside tells him that his precautions have failed.

This time, his roar makes the valley tremble.

Once more, the villagers are dragged from bed.

Vortigern doesn't bother with words.

He doesn't need to.

By day, the peasants labor, with only small ale as their sustenance. The tower is finished but for inhabitants – and after the previous experience, Vortigern protests with only a frustrated growl when his men prefer their tents to sleeping inside.

By night, the tower collapses. This time, none of the stones can be reused, broken too awkwardly to be placed atop one another and remain standing there.

A less stubborn man might have looked to place his tower on another site – and given up immediate control of the high ground in case of enemy occupation. Vortigern refuses to do so.

A more devout man might have taken note of the gods' will and revised his course.

Vortigern knows that the gods are a lie, or dead. Or else uninterested in men's doings.

Possibly all three.

He turns to his magicians. The three elders have advised him since he married into the tribe. Officially, anyway. Unofficially, they are utterly useless when it comes to military matters, and anything that isn't infused with Tradition – and thus not approvable – is treated with utmost suspicion. Vortigern usually finds it easier to work around them, and grit his teeth for the rituals at the turn of moon and season.

But right now? They are the only ones he can call on. This is their sphere of authority, not his.

"I know magic when I see it. Find the cause out, then a solution. My tower will be built."

The dragon's dormant blood is roused in full. A foe, far below the dragon, seeks battle with tricks? Then it will be burnt for its audacity.

The three old men bow.

As the sun rises, they walk around the site. They stare at the way the stones have fallen, the shadows they cast. They draw circles, casting finger-bones engraved with runes and watch the way they fall. They sacrifice a lamb, and inspect the entrails.

They confer over the results, glancing over their shoulders, and make many sounds of annoyance.

Vortigern waits, patiently caring for his blade with a small whetstone and oil-soaked cloth. The sun passes its zenith overhead. The villagers tremble in their cottages, barely daring to use the day to prepare food in case of another day of straight labor unexpectedly beginning.

Finally, they nod their heads. The oldest shuffles forward as they turn to face their ruler, bowed over his staff for support.

"It seems a sort of… payment, is required, my liege."

Vortigern raises his brow. "Payment? Of what? To who?"

"To the gods of this land." Vortigern's eyes narrow behind the shadows of his helm, but the ancient's eyes do not see it, fixed on the earth. "A sacrifice. A… particular sacrifice."

Ah. Builder superstitions. He is familiar with such.

"What sort of sacrifice?" Human, most likely. It is becoming rarer, but not uncommon.

"A child… a boy child…"

"We have twenty in the village, at least," the Pendragon snorts.

"…who was not fathered by any man living or dead."

Vortigern's hands still. Ah. Things begin to make sense. He has lost a son, and they want another son for it.

"Put him to death, and sprinkle his blood on the foundation stones. Then the gods will let the tower stand."

Vortigern smiles. Teeth flash, catching in the blade's reflection. "Then go and find me such a child." He returns to polishing the blade.

It takes him a few breaths to realize that the old man hasn't moved.

Vortigern frowns, checks the blade for excess oil, lifting it to eye level.

The old man is staring at him. Mouth open, searching for words.

"Well?"

It takes the elder a moment to turn thoughts to speech that the warrior-king can actually hear. "Forgive me, sire… but the gods only named their price, not where to find it. In truth… I am not sure that such a boy can exist."

Vortigern's fingers still on the knife.

Then a low, dangerous chuckle rumbles from deep within his chest. "Is that what you think?" For all their limited expertise in magic, the warlocks' wisdom clearly does not extend to an understanding of people.

That is the domain of successful rulers.

Rising to his feet, Vortigern shouts to his soldiers, raising a bag high, metal clinking within. "Find me a boy not fathered by a man, and bring him here."

His soldiers stare a moment, then laugh; some move to their horses, some to speak to the villagers, separating out the households where no husband or father dwells.

One man, packing his saddlebags slowly, moves past a spot on the village green. There, some of the older children have coaxed the younger ones into play, distracting them from their terror. Others play at standing guard, and it is this that first attracts the soldier's notice, when a scuffle breaks out over the order the boys will stand in.

Later, Vortigern hears of the other names they called each other, as children do in such arguments. _Mother's milksop. Bantam's chick._ Childish insults. It is a form of gaining precedence, a game of bragging. And it is about to get out of hand, in the form of three stubborn boys and one keen eared warrior.

"I count more than you do," one lad boasts, his hair matching the sooty smudge on one cheek. "My father is the mine foreman. He leads all the working men below. So shall I lead above." It is a good argument, and the younger boys nod.

"Lead us from above, into the coal seam?" sneers another boy, looking rather better fed even after several hungry days. "What glory or safety is that? _My_ father is the Miller, and his children will not go hungry or dirty or poor. I stand before you as your elder, too." This boaster is big for his age, and though his voice is cracking, his muscled arms are half as thick as the flour sack already, below a pimpled nose and eyes that squint with shortsightedness and greed. His argument in words may be thin, but those arms are an argument of their own. The boys murmur, divided.

"And yet my mother stands higher than either of your fathers or you," comes another voice, high and penetrating like a whistling wind on a chilly day. "For she is both a king's daughter and the finest spinner of wool and of stories that I know. I stand before either of you this day."

The adult warrior slows his hands. The boyish argument has no claim on him against the king's order, but he finds himself drawn. And a mention of other royalty, if any truth lies in it, is worth a short delay.

This final argument seems ready to sway the 'troops' to vote. But the miller's son is not ready to give up his place. "We speak of fathers, not mothers, _Emrys_ ," he spits. "Who is your father, then? Oh, wait, that's right. You haven't got one. You never had a father! You don't count!"

Years of training and battle-enforced habits ensure there is no warning when the soldier spins about and claps hands on both their shoulders. As the other boys cry out in fear, the man hefts them easily by their scruffs, eyeing the towheaded and brown-hooded heads. Odd, for a boy to be so hooded in the height of an unusually warm summer. Still, it is not important.

"What's that you said, miller's boy? Repeat that." There's no need for a please that would only be a lie.

Now the boy stutters. "I… I… Sir, I meant no disrespect…"

"And none will be taken, _if_ you repeat what you said."

"He… Emrys, he hasn't got a father. Not living, not in the churchyard. His da's never been named… But whatever he was, he wasn't human."

The soldier breaths in sharply, looking at the other boy, still standing alone. Clever lad; he's trying not to let them connect him with his family for reprisal, if they haven't already. "Is this true?"

The lad's cheeks are pale beneath the coal dust fingerprints. "I don't know about the not human part… but his mother's never married, or named the father. Not even when the village priest or her own father asked her. It's why they're even living here – her father exiled them until she tells, but she swears she never saw the man who did it, if man there was!"

"A woman can lie about her bastard's father easily enough," the soldier argues. Reward or no, he's not bringing anything less than a certainty before his King. Not when Vortigern is in a high rage, his sense of purpose as certain as it is twisted. Not when Vortimer is ash on the air and unable to bring his father down to rationality.

The miller's boy, more confident now, snorts. "When he can still see, with those pale eyes? How could his father be human, if the son's hair is such a color?"

"At least I don't have a nest of thatch, which birds try and nest in!" gasps the… possible half-human, desperately but methodically wriggling. A ripple of uneasy laughter breezes through the children at the words.

"Only because you bewitched them!" the miller's boy spits, trying to swing himself closer to bloody his companion's nose. "Elf-brat! Devil's son! Whore's child!"

" _Take it back._ " Emrys has gone limp in the soldier's grip, an unexpected dead weight that he nevertheless keeps a tight grip on. But the sudden switch from motion to stillness has had another effect, for the wriggling has loosened the hood on his head.

It's a brief, bright flash under the dark cloth. Enough to make the soldier curious. Setting the miller's boy down, he uses his now free hand to give a gentle tug.

The hood comes off.

A short mop of hair tumbles loose. Not red, not brown or black, not even blond or mouse-colored. It's strong and healthy hair, straight down to the root. White as any grandfather's, yet filled with color as the light passes through it. Not even an albino has hair like this.

If any doubted the miller's son before, they are silent now. After all, what human father might contribute such a silver-white rainbow of silk, or such odd purple eyes? No human father, that's for sure.

"Unseelie's brat," hisses one woman, drawing her children closer to her skirts.

"His boots are full of flower petals, and more grow wherever he walks barefoot," another child pipes up. "Emrys isn't a devil! His magic's nice!" She doesn't realize why her companions are slumped in defeat. She doesn't know she's just condemned him.

There's only one question remaining. "Where's his mother? I must take her son."

There is a sudden, high-pitched shriek from one corner of the green. "No!" It's a woman, no longer young but still beautiful. Her dress is finer than most of the women's, if dirty from a few days of wear and tear. Her dark hair and eyes are fine, her skin fairer than he would expect among the sunburned villagers who work the fields day in, day out.

"You are his mother?"

She nods, worriedly, jamming the hood back on her son's head. "Please, whatever mischief he's caused, he'll apologize, I promise. We'll pay for the damage—"

"You'll need to discuss that with the king, I fear." Turning his head, the soldier whistles. His gelding trots forward, and he swings himself atop the beast, placing the child in front of him.

"Then let me come with you and I will," she states. No peasant indeed; this is the tone of a woman who has grown up accustomed to being obeyed.

The soldier shrugs, and yanks her in front of him, binding her hands together with her son's. "Try to escape, boy, and your mother's throat is cut."

He has them riding up the hill within moments, and in front of his king.

One raised eyebrow and a nod is all he needs as permission to recount the story, the mother growing paler with every word, the boy quieter, and his king smiles grimly.

"But it isn't true! My Emrys is no demon's son!" the woman protests. "This is a pack of gossip and lies."

Vortigern is abruptly, coldly furious once more. A single blow from his hand, and she's on the ground before them, a dark handprint forming on one cheek.

The warrior-king bends closer to her. His voice is a furious hiss, and the ground seems to tremble beneath the force of his contained rage.

"You would save his life? Then name his father. And hope I believe you."

The mother trembles, a spinner's calluses rubbed together. "I swear, sir… by your soul and mine. I cannot name the father, for I never got a name, nor did I see a face. I only know that for three months I dreamed of a great weight sitting atop me, so that I could not move. I thought it was a nightmare, and knew not what to make of it. Then the dreams stopped, and I thought no more of it until my courses did not come and my belly swelled. I swear, my lord, I know not who or what lay with me. Please, my son is innocent! The priest baptized him before the cord was cut, and my father has cast him from the succession, myself as well since I would neither disown him nor name the father! Whatever threat you think he is, I swear he is not!"

She gasps for mercy, half-drowned in despair already. But Vortigern's slowly growing, cruel smile, only pushes her hope further beneath the waters.

"So, you are Emrys. A boy not fathered by any man living or dead, it seems. Perhaps not by a man at all, given eyes of that color so light and yet can see, and hair that belongs on neither old man nor boy." The man turns toward the boy, grim with certainty.

The boy does not respond. Those lavender eyes are on his mother, weeping, a dark handprint upon her face. His shoulders shake beneath the guard's grip, and his hair blocks his eye.

"My magicians have informed me that such a child's blood, spilled on the foundations and mixed into the mortar, is required to ensure the tower stands." Vortigern's tone is dry, his words spoken with the simple certainty of a navigator speaking of weather and tides as he charts a safe course. Spilling the blood of children is not a matter to worry over. It should terrify any grown man to hear his own death discussed. It surprises no one that the boy's shoulders' are trembling harder. Crying in terror is a human response.

A high, merry chuckle slowly emerges, all the more remarkable for the lack of hysteria tingeing it.

Mother, king, guards and magi all stare in incomprehension.

Finally he stops laughing, and looks up, bold in the way that only a youth cocky in the way only those who have not yet learned to fear death can achieve.

"And you believed them?" _How utterly foolish of you_ , his expression declares.

Vortigern's face is the frozen river at midwinter, his voice dripping icicles. "I suppose you could do better?"

"I see more than you do, blind king, if you are foolish enough to think my blood or eyes will help you," the boy retorts. He tilts his head to one side, a bird examining a bit of thatch to see if it is suitable for nest-building; his eyes stare somewhere past Vortigern before refocusing.

The King is less than amused. "While it is true that bowing would not save you from your purpose, calling names does not win you glory, boy. This is not a game for honors with your friends, and disrespect is not something I let slide lightly."

The boy chuckles. "Why should I bow, when I have nothing to fear today? I will not die, and if I did, it would not help you." He shakes his head, oddly and abruptly melancholic. "Blind indeed. I wonder what it must be like, to live so ignorant to what lies before and beneath you, so fearful of what is to come. I certainly would never take such a foolish choice to shy away from myself as the threat's cause, were I to wear your crown." Curiosity returns, the change jarring in its swiftness. "What on earth makes a crown so attractive? At least a dragon has an excuse for seeking gold and power, but why a human man would take it willingly and seek more when he cannot eat it…" He trails off into half mumbled contemplation under his breath, apparently unaware that they all can still hear him, staring at the warrior before him not as something to fear, but like a particularly colorful butterfly close enough to study.

Vortigern's eyes narrow to slits, his pupils near vertical. He does not appreciate this sizing up. It is not the gaze of a warrior assessing his chances in a fight, or a politician assessing the worth of a potential pawn. It is the gaze of a magus, a true magus, sizing up potential specimens.

It is not a look that should be on a child's face.

It is not a look that should be on a human's face.

"If you see so much, then you know it is not enough to decry a solution to a problem. Any man who serves me knows that he must be ready with an alternative. So prove why my tower tumbles, and why your blood won't help, and give me something that will – and perhaps I will let you leave with your life." He's going to enjoy it when the upstart realizes how far his tongue has outrun itself into trouble. Even if he leaves alive, it won't be with that tongue still wagging, Vortigern decides.

"Oh, we're getting to that already? Well, human lives are short, so I suppose I can't be surprised you're rushing, even over the edge," murmurs the boy. He coughs, straightens, and stares the king boldly in the face, somehow meeting eyes straight on despite their height disparity.

"Your magicians are fools and liars. It is not the angry gods that cause your tower to fall, so appeasing them with my blood will serve no purpose. No, your problem is water, not blood, and an overabundance rather than a lack. Or rather, it's what lives in the water. You should dig deeper when it's foundations that are the trouble." He tilts his head again, smiling brightly, an innocent boy who couldn't hurt a fly and who can't understand why the adults are being stupid about the obvious. "I don't think they're going to appreciate being dragged out by the scruff of their necks, so you'd best just give them some room to figure it out themselves."

"If you think vague riddles will let you escape death in the guise of a prophet, you condemn yourself thrice over. Speak clearly; I have no time for guesswork, and no mind for delays." The king caresses his blade's hilt with a lover's touch.

"Small words, then?" A boy's cheekiness, not picking up on the warning.

"Perhaps I should have your blood either way, just to be certain." The knife shifts in the sheath.

"Emrys." The mother, forgotten on the floor, startles them both with her firm tone. No longer frail, she frowns at her son, a wordless command to behave himself.

The boy sighs, then turns to the magi. "You'll find my dreams more useful than blood, I think. Tell me, spellcasters. What lies beneath the tower's stones, beneath the earth?" He waits but a few heartbeats of silence, before facing the king again. "Ignorant frauds, this lot of yours. Dig deeper than before, thrice a man's height, and you will find a large pool of water in an underground cavern. That is the first part of the problem." He straightens as he speaks, his voice deepening slightly with conviction. "When you have drained the pool to nothing but mud, you willl find two huge shaking stones. They are thick, but hollow. Crack them – within are two dreamers, snoring until the earth and water shakes from the rumbles. Set free and awoken, they will do battle. And when they are done, your tower may be built without tumbling down the same day."

Vortigern's eyes flick to his most experienced builders in question. The man frowns, but nods. "An underground pool could certainly be weakening the tower by causing the earth to shift, sire. If it's there, we'd have to drain it before continuing the work anyway. I don't know about the rest of it."

"So be it. Set the villagers to work." Red-shot eyes half-focus on the lad. "We will test this dream of yours, boy. Pray it proves true in full, or your blood will stain the stones. Watch him, men."

Once more the villagers are roused and rounded up, this time to first clear away the rubble and then to dig the pit. They dig through sunset, and work through the night. No one rests, not even the soldiers in shifts. Vortigern stalks the labor, pressing them to work even in the dark, lighting fires so the workers can see.

Past the topsoil, past gravel and rock, past the dirt already torn up by multiple attempts at building the foundations. Past the hard stuff they haven't touched, to rock and clay. Until at last, in the gray light of the hours before dawn, before the sun turns the sky to orange-gold-rose, when one man shouts his surprise as his pickaxe comes back wet, and a spurt of water spits at his clothes.

By the time the sky is rosy and the fires are dying, they have unearthed the bubbling pool of groundwater. Vortigern has little understanding of how they drain the water, but it is done in a matter of hours.

Ripples churn beneath the surface, and as the water levels fall, two huge ovoid stones slowly emerge from the murky muck-churned water. Ripples spread and cross from each of them, as if the stones are breathing in and out. One man touches them, draws his hand back lighting quick.

 _They're warm_.

When nothing but damp mud and stone remains to surround the two stones, all but four men leave the pit.

The two master stonecutters of the village take up their hammers. Beside them, their steadiest-handed journeymen position the chisels.

They only wait on orders.

Vortigern turns to the boy. "Now we test your dream."

White teeth flash at him, before the boy leans over the pit. "Make sure you step to the side after you crack the shell! You need to stay out of their way!" Beside him, his mother exhales, in a mix of exasperation and puzzling relief.

Vortigern nods to the workers.

The hammers rise – then fall.

The first hit scratches the surface.

The second swing makes the mud tremble under the shaking stones.

On the third ring of the hammers – the cracks come. The men stagger back, moving to the sides of the pit despite the mud clinging to their shoes with the drag of quicksand's traps.

Just in time.

From within the stones, light illuminates the cracks, shining bright and clear through the shadows of the pit to those standing at the edge of the top.

The cracks tremble, and then the stones – the eggs – shatter.

From one set of gray shards shines a brighter moonshine, milky scales, diamond bright, untouched by the mud of the pit. A long, sinuous neck raises its head, hisses in the air, half-blind in the light after so long a darkness. It staggers to its hind feet, claws seeking purchase in the mud.

From the other ruin rises a sulfurous deep red, a miniature fire-mountain snorting smoke, the glow a deep red that might match the dregs of aged wine. A hooked tail lashes out for balance, perilously close to where the masons cower and try not to breathe in the smoke. Leathery folds slowly extend from the tight clutch close to the back, unfolding into five spines as it stretches wider than a sail – only to shriek with rage at the limits of the pit, evidently too narrow to fully open the way.

The villages flinch at the sound. In the village below, several women cry out in pain, clutching at their bellies.

An answering shriek comes. The white wyrm has seen the red.

The horses rear, and their riders curse and try to calm them, yanking on the reins. It's futile. Those in the saddles are thrown; those on the ground get kicked if they don't get out of the way soon enough.

But despite their panic, the prey have no need to fear. These predators have but one foe today – each other.

Amber orbs meet blue, and both darken in a promise. A challenge of mockery, a growl of acceptance.

Two of these beings cannot live in one territory. This fight has been destined for centuries, and delayed too long by imprisonment.

No longer.

The pit is too narrow for battle, and so both creatures stretch their wings halfway to full extension, flapping heavily to rise, spiraling to catch the air.

When their heads emerge, each skull is easily longer than a man is tall from snout tip to top neck spine. The sinuous necks twine without touching, circling without leaving sight, a mockery of a wrestling circle before the fighters make contact.

They spiral, gaining the air currents, stretching out their wings, the force buffeting the winds. Soldiers and villagers and animals alike cry out in fear and wonder, for now they know they have but tasted of the despair to come.

The very presence of a wakened, wrathful dragon is poison to a land. Wind from the beating wings may flatten a building. The fire of its breath makes kindling fuel of forests. The breath is poisonous to breath overlong. But the dragon's cry is deadliest. One shriek is agony to the ears and body at the lightest toll; at heaviest cost, the crops wither to husks, animals suffocate on the spot, and babes are born as still as stone.

Slaughter, starvation, and malady. Three sorrows in one.

Wise was the wordsmith who nicknamed the sky-plagues.

Forked tongues flick the air. The white tail, thrashing to gain room to balance as its owner climbs the skies, catches on part of the rubble pile and bats it away, too quickly for the spectators to escape its path. One man lies moaning beneath the largest piece where it lands, his leg trapped beneath. There will be no saving him.

But even as the soldiers retreat downhill with the villagers, and the masons climb the ladder hoping it will not break beneath their feet, a king and a boy stand rooted to the ground, watching the dragons. Even the men guarding the child prophet's mother have dragged her out of the way, even the elders have shrieked and hobbled downhill, secure from the predator's instinct to chase while a greater prize snares its attention.

Not the king. Not the boy.

They stand their ground and bear the battle witness.

Above them, the beasts rise, higher and higher, their shadow crossing the land, their mouths open slightly to spit flame or tear at scales, their claws seeking to grapple and restrain – but not yet. They seek the higher air, a contest of flight. Men know such battles, meant to shame and unnerve an opponent with boasts, before the combat's trade of blows.

The white's head darts forward and low abruptly, going for a bite, but the red dragon retracts its neck swiftly before even one tooth nicks the scales of its throat, raking the white chest scales in a reprimand that screeches, worse than fingernails on slate. As if that agony of racket signals a switch of tactics, they separate, gliding sideways past their foe and away, still glaring without a blink.

Vortigern has seen raptors in courtship flights in the wild, and it was much like the battle so far, if birds had scales instead of feathers, and claws where the top of their wings curve. For the raptors would share the same air as they glided, their wings mirror movements, and if one turned on its back, the other gripped its mate by the talons and held on as they fell together, until they separated and rose and gripped and fell again, a display of skill and partnership that he has never seen the match for.

Not until now.

But these are not birds. Birds do not turn and coil, poised to strike, the only warning of lethality present in their posture – and yet, these are not snakes either, for all that they are serpentine, for while their tails may lash and their scales gleam, what snake needs wings in constant motion for a battle?

This is not courtship, unless a dragon would be Death's consort.

Hovering in place, tails lashing as though a third wing might help the steady hovering, each wyrm draws back its neck, slightly and perfectly curved in a sinuous coil. The scales glow already, but now there is another light, as if the belly were a lantern, moonlight to sun and embers to roaring –

Eyes narrow, then shut as jaws widen, and then widen further, the neck unmoving. The head draws back, miniscule amounts – then _darts_ forward.

But where a snake would strike poison, a striking dragon spits fire.

The conflagration spews forth from maws stretched impossibly wide, the beasts' bottom jaws all but unhinged, in two currents as red as the glow of freshly lit coals, stronger than a river's course when it tries to outrun Father Winter's freezing touch, that suddenly meet and merge with one another. For a moment it is hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. Then – a burst of light. It is a second sun, tiny but still placed far too close for comfort, the sound magnifying a series of tiny explosions into one long sound that continues without end, the heat too great to withstand comfortably even at a distance.

The warrior-king has seen two men of equal size and strength, with muscles bulging and purple veins pulsing beneath every inch of exposed skin as they lock into a fruitless wrestling tussle and refuse to yield. He has felt the tension of an enemy's blade press upon his own, and also felt resistance fade away as his foe's steel bends under his superior strength just before the opponent's sword falls away and his cuts into the desperate fighter's exposed neck for a lethal strike. He has even seen two reeds tangle in the gale of a strong storm, crashing into each other and entwining as if it will stop the winds that effortlessly bend them backwards until their fragile structures threaten to snap.

Never has he seen something like this. The flames dance more than they battle and flow more like waves of the sea even as they push against each other. The dips and rises in the currents of fire are almost too fast to see, like a laundress snapping the sheet up and down in her hands to straighten the creases.

He can hear the screams of the masons, emerged at last from the pit on the rickety ladder, smell the acrid stench of burned flesh and hair, and it is only then that he absently realizes that tendrils of the firestorm have begun falling down. Hell rains from the sky, and some men, it seems, suffer the same fate as the unlucky tents of his soldiers and the few plants that remain on the hilltops, burning merrily.

But the King cares not whether the peasants are smart enough to trip and roll downhill and let the barren soil smother the worst of the blaze, nor does he fear the embers the size of apples that fall around him, either scorching the earth stripped clean for construction or landing harmlessly in the evacuated pit to be swallowed by the mud. He remains untouched, despite a lack of shelter and standing directly beneath the battle, and doubts that any flames will hit him now if they have not already. His only attention is for the battle.

The skies are clearing, the flames no longer obscuring the line of sight. The earth is wounded, but the sky plagues remain intact, not even a speck of soot to ruin the polish of their scales.

The dragons drop, come together, and circle higher and higher again, attempting to lock wings, hind feet, tangle tails, always to throw their foe to the ground. Sometimes they advance and clash, chest to chest, gnawing and snapping at each other's heads. Scales and chips of claws and even an occasional tooth fall to the ground along with the rain of fiery hail.

Beyond the cloying clouds of smoke, the sun climbs the sky steadily towards the apex of noon.

Sometimes the red wyrm gains the advantage, sometimes the white, but never for long. As with the stags in rut, who lock their antlers to prove themselves the mightier, tussle for hours without a winner, and find, too late, they cannot pull apart, to eat or sleep or mount the does, but stagger linked, even unto death of starvation, so is the stalemate clear between the dragons, who match so well that there will be no winner save exhaustion.

Yet neither tires, only further spurred on by rage.

"Will it never end?" The king speaks aloud, not seeking an answer, and is surprised to hear the chuckle in reply. Tearing his eyes from the forces of nature in the sky, he stares, disbelieving, at the boy, not harmed by so much as a singe, still standing unflinchingly at his captor's side. An unnatural gleam resides in those purple eyes, the faintest of wistful smiles playing on those lips.

A sane man would shiver at the sight.

But the king does not know fear. He listens, as the boy shakes his head condescendingly and answers.

"A dragon may be soothed to a drunken dreaming if provided enough mead and shut up in a cave. But awakened and faced with a thief, nothing will sooth a dragon's hoarding nature until the slavering outlaw is slaughtered, his corpse set out unburied to be a crow's banquet, and the loss recouped ten times over in fire and blood. Nothing else will soothe a dragon's wrath once awakened, for all trespassing interlopers are thieves of territory." The smile curves further. "Including any humans, of course."

The King raises an eyebrow. "And if another were to intervene in the battle?"

The boy considers, his eyes unfocused. "…A distraction for one might break the stalemate, yes."

That's enough for the King. Forcing his attention away from the fight, he moves towards the ruins of the still-burning camp.

His spearheads are melted out of shape, the shafts are charred ashes that fall to pieces at a touch. But beneath a leather saddle, a sack treated for waterproofing lies sheltered. And within, a quiver and a bow. Not his own, but they will have to do.

Stuffing them beneath his cloak, he ducks another hail of embers, and moves back toward the pit. The dragons have dropped again, to circle higher once more, biting and clawing and slashing and refusing to give a claw's length of ground or air.

Grasping the bow, kneeling to see it better, he strings it in one attempt, rubbing the string and wood to check its strength. Then, he checks the arrow, wondering that the flight feathers are still straight.

He cannot stop and think about what he is doing. He knows no fear, but if he thinks to fire on such magnificence, to even presume the effort… well, he'll never take the shot if he does that.

He nocks the arrow. _Not yet._

He squints one eye closed. _Not yet._

He raises the bow to aim, watching how his target moves. _Not._

He draws back the string, waiting, an eternity of tension. _Yet._

Without warning, the red dragon folds its wings, letting its own weight drag its foe. Instinctively, the white wyrm spreads its own wider to catch the air.

His fingers release the string.

The arrow flies, a silent whisper.

It punches straight through the unprotected leather membrane, bare of scales.

The white head turns. It feels pain, and it turns to obliterate the cause with fury.

Y Ddraig Goch lunges, clasps its teeth firmly around the throat, locks its jaws, and hangs on. Break the air path, break the fire path, break the spine. Hold onto the prey; never let go; make sure it is dead and not merely playing at it.

The white wyrm thrashes desperately, its death throes frenetic enough to make taking another shot impossible.

The red dragon shakes once, twice, thrice, as a terrier shakes a rat. Making sure the spine is broken. Then it drops its foe, contemptuously, letting the corpse in the making crash to the ground, clawing at its wings on the way down.

End over end turns the white wyvren, eyes already flat with death, a clumsy tumble, for death does not grant grace; nor does the baked earth grant a soft cushion, shuddering as if to trigger an avalanche in protest of the unexpected weight of the monster's corpse. Shrieking in triumph, the red dragon descends downward, following its foe.

They're huge, both of them. Wingspan wider than the pit, barely small enough to fit inside the full camp's ruins, the corpse sprawls in death, awkwardly, tail and wings crumpled and askew, neck twisted unnaturally even for the serpentine spine, the white of bone and scale befouled with blood and flesh and poison. Each hind-leg is as long as three tall men, at first guess.

But there will be no time to make an accurate measure.

Landing beside its victim, the red dragon spreads its wings wide and high in triumph. One last shriek of victory passes, and then it turns its head, and breaths upon the fallen.

The corpse ignites. So impervious to its foe's fire but moments before, it is now as flammable as dry kindling.

Magnificent or no, the living victor remains a monstrous threat. The archer-king has nocked the second arrow to his bow, ready to shoot before the opportunity flees.

But it has already fled, even as the arrow is loosed. The final duty discharged, the red dragon lifts already spread wings, and returns to the air, flying higher and higher, winging its way north toward the mountains.

While a wing-shot is still possible, it would only enrage the beast. And the neck shot, the killing blow, is obscured and unexposed to his aim.

Contemplatively, Vortigern lowers the bow, staring after it.

"As for dragons, so for men," the boy murmurs beside him. "And so for the blood-painted sons of the white dragon."

That nickname raises his eyebrows. "The white dragon has children?" Does he need to keep his bow out, or a hammer ready to crush the eggs before they hatch? Or is this more metaphor?

"Oh, yes," the boy nods, turning a fallen scarlet tooth over in his hands. "You'll share the knife and nest with one of the hatchlings."

…Never mind.

A more curious or prudent man would seek to question the boy further. Vortigern decides his prudence best lies in avoiding a worse headache from the boy's riddles. He'll get the information now, and sort through it later.

"Will the red dragon return?"

The oracle stares at him, vaguely despairing of the oblivion of the adult. "Do you really think he'll stay away? I told you, a dragon doesn't approve of trespassers. No, he'll come sort you out, and your tower too. Expect a lot of fire and claws."

The king snorts. "Then it's a good thing I already planned for it to be built in stone. And pray it stands this time, boy, or I _will_ have your blood." Gripping the lad by the shoulder, he hauls him down the hill to look at the damage to the village, prison work force, and soldiers.

Even indirect as targets, the cost is high and visible. Many animals are dead or seriously injured, collapsing at shriek after shriek. No woman who knew herself pregnant, as well as a few who hadn't yet realized it, retains that gravid state; five small corpses that never breathed air are laid to rest that evening. Harvest is half-ruined, the crops withering in the field. The war camp ruined, along with all supplies of food, bedding, and weaponry it contained. Severe burns, broken legs and arms, and poison in the air. Casualties among the villages and soldiers alike.

Vortigern gives the rest of the day for his men to recover, before forcing the villagers back to work in the morning.

Despite the depleted work force, they quarry the stone and haul it uphill in a day. A second day, and the pit is filled with the leftover rubble. A third, and the tower is built at last. No wood is used. Only stone and mortar.

"So, little prophet, will it stand? Or do I need to spill your blood?"

The urchin wrinkles his nose. "No construction of man can stand against a determined dragon. Only another dragon can do that. My blood would make no difference there, for I have no scales. But it will stand up to anything but a dragon's flames, yes. When the dragon comes, though… Then stone will burn, and smoke will choke. Even the dead dragon's son in law cannot hold out against fire."

The king nods, making a mental note to keep his archers well supplied to shoot down the beast. "And when will it return?"

The boy's smile widens, his teeth too white and perfect – another mark of inhumanity.

"Hmmm… when the sun decides not to wait until sunset to fall from the sky, and trees decide to go flying." He tilts his head, clearly enjoying the king's frustration with his cryptic replies. "Ask me in the morning if you want more details than that. It takes time and focus for me to find something that isn't as close to me as the sleepers under hill."

The mad king chuckles, low in his throat. "When the sun decides to set early, and the trees fly? That will never happen! But as you will. Go on, then, little prophet. Dream... and see what future victories are in store for me."

Still chuckling, he goes to his own bed, secure in his own future. For once, his night passes without dreams. Thus, he is in a good mood when he rises and dresses.

He's almost forgotten what he'd commanded of the boy the night before.

So he's surprised when the lad steps in front of him, blocking the path from the tower to the village.

"I have had another dream, o ruler who would shape reality. They are coming who are here to defeat you, the man who would ally even with the sons of the white dragon."

What nonsense is this? He scowls at the lad.

"The swarm is here to rescue a queen, and sting you to death for harrying her."

An odd shadow, longer than the tower, seems to dim the sky. Is a cloud beginning to pass overhead?

"A swarm of bees?" Vortigern scoffs. "What have I to fear from that?" The shadow deepens.

"I don't know." The boy tilts his head to one side. "Why don't you look up and tell me?"

Scoffing, Vortigern turns to gaze at the sky.

But there are no clouds to cause this dimness. No cloud, but a slow, curved, darkness, as if a great beast had begun to take a bite from the sun.

In that still, windless, dimming day, he hears the tramp of horses' hooves and marching infantry.

For one, terrible moment, the madman has a glimpse at sanity and the truth.

He whirls, gripping the treacherous soothsayer by the shoulders, and lifting him into the air to shake him in fury.

"You said my defeat came at a dragon's hands!" An eclipse. How did this not occur to him?

"I did say that nothing could defeat you except another dragon's fire, yes." The boy is grinning, a distinctly malicious amusement curving his lips. "Is it my fault you took it to be the same dragon that you woke up?"

Vortigern growls, and tosses the boy aside. He has no more time for the child's impudence; he draws his sword, ready to remove that mocking tongue. But the boy is ready. Rather than sprawl, the urchin lands on his feet, more cat than boy.

"Fire and blood and the treachery of the long knives are the only legacy you will leave behind, Vortigern. And though the elder dragons may not defeat you, for that task is left to their heir, they will drive you away for a time. I see it! Your fate is tied to the white dragon; as it falls, so will you!"

"Seize him!" the king shouts, lunging for the whelp. But even as the lad dances aside from his reach, a shout comes from atop the wall, where the lookout stands.

"Soldiers! SOLDIERS, MY LIEGE! THOUSANDS OF THEM!"

Through a pass in the mountains, they have come, a long, winding sinuous trail. It is the crawl of the red dragon, and its banner rides at the head, alongside two very familiar brothers. Aurelius and Uther, Vortigern's elder siblings. The golden dragon – that is Aurelius' personal sigil. And Uther's…

A sudden chill pervades Vortigern.

Uther's personal sigil is a red dragon, set on a blue banner.

No, it's a coincidence. What reason is there to shiver? The tower is indestructible to men.

And his brothers are riding for war, but inside the tower's vaults, he is safe.

In that moment of distraction, the boy launches himself beyond Vortigern's reach, sprinting toward the village. The king curses, but cannot pursue, already turning to storm back inside the walls, and hurry up the stairs to join the lookout, shouting commands to rouse his slumbering soldiers.

As the sun continues to vanish, and old tales of the Fenrir-wolf run through the king's mind, the army continues to coil in a serpent's slither across the short stretch of the valley. Grey-headed Aurelius rides at the head of the column, while blond Uther is spurring his horse forward, towards the tower.

Just out of reach of arrows, they halt.

He stares down in silence and disgust. He can see in their war attire and their army that they have not come as guests. He can see in their faces that they have not come to aide him.

So they have come to fight.

He smiles grimly. "I wondered how long it would take you to get here." He knew they'd come eventually, but he would have hoped they'd see reason. "You're a bit late to show respect for your nephew. Whatever happened to the loving uncles?"

Uther clenches his teeth. Aurelius sighs. "We paid him mourning tribute on our passage here, where you left him buried with full honors. There's other business for us here today – such as your trial."

He scoffs. "Trial? Of what offense am I convicted, _High King_?"

"Vortigern. You overstep your boundaries in pursuing justice for your son's death. While I sorrow for my nephew, this is an abuse of your power under the common law. You murder the very people you are supposed to protect. You build a tower without giving notice to the local ring-giver, and use his people to do it without pay. You unleashed two dragons on the land, and let one escape alive without pursuit. You pursue private vengeance at the expense of every oath you have sworn as a ruler." Aurelius' face is grim and haggard, aged before his time, resolved to do a duty he has no desire for. "Come down, Vortigern. Pay weregild to these people for the injuries you have done them, and you shall receive it in turn. But there must be justice for justice. Leave the innocents be. Mourning may only be carried so far."

A wolf's snarl of outraged grief. "Call my actions unjust when you are a father who has lost a son, Aurelius! I will not surrender to an unjust law! You call these churls and whores and killers in the making _innocent_?"

"The only killing these people had done before your arrival was the livestock slaughtered in the autumns, and in self-defense against bandits," Uther growls. "Cease attempting to justify your murders, you foul snake!"

"None of us have any desire to be kinslayers, Vortigern. Brother, come down from your tower." Aurelius pleads.

"And if I do not? Will you bear that curse? I may be an oathbreaker, but no man is so accused as kinslayer!" They are trapping themselves in a stalemate, where his brothers' numbers cannot be used to advantage, and his own claim of the high ground that the tower stands on makes him certain of victory.

"Haven't you done enough?" Uther roars. "You've spilled enough blood to fill a river! Surrender, or we destroy the tower."

"I have an army! I can hold out against you –"

Uther's chuckle is cold, suddenly soft rather than booming, and all the more deadly for it. "Say, rather, that you _had_ an army, Usurper. You claim power that only the High King has a right to wield, and that's Aurelius, not you or me. Your former soldiers stand at my command. Apparently they were tired of serving a madman. Your child prophet and his mother seek my protection, until they may be united with their patriarch the King of Wales." The blond man's eyes narrow. "You have nothing. Will you come down or no?"

"Traitorous oathbreakers! Surrender to you? Never!" An army of brightly colored ants, these men seem from the top of the tower. Beneath his notice. He has barred the gate, and with the men gone, he can hold out for weeks. This tower will not fall to men.

Uther closes his eyes, then looks toward Aurelius.

"So be it." The High King's eyes close in defeat.

Uther raises his arm. A host of archers draw their bows, ready their arrows.

When the arm falls, they loose them to the sky.

And the dusk is suddenly alight with fire once more, as the child prophet gestures toward the arrow hail and they ignite in response.

Vortigern laughs.

Trees flying, indeed.

In later years, he will remember his escape from the burning castle in fits and starts – the air chokingly dry from the sheer lack of moisture, the burns on his hands as he tore a way free, the skulking past the army.

The determined vow he makes.

_If there is no Briton who will hear my cry and aide me in the justice I seek… then I welcome any who will aide me._

For the death of his son and the sake of the world he cherished, he will destroy Albion. If none of his beloved ones may enjoy it freely without fear, than it is no place for any human. He will let no human find safety there.

Why not? It's easy being brave when he has nothing left to lose.

Easy to sit at the meeting table with the mercenary Saxons, and promise them land if they will help him win it.

He will take the land from the Britons and Picts and Scots, and he will return it to the primordial. A place forever uninhabitable by men… Isn't that another name for utopia? Of course, he does not tell his allies this. No need to explain that his payment is fool's gold.

He marries his second wife Rowena for her father Hengist's swords and spears. He never loves her as he once loved that selkie maid he chose not to bind to himself. He never thanks her as he did his first wife for the children she gave him, for they never have any. She is a knife in the dark, a beauty that cuts men to the quick and made them willing oathbreakers, but he sees none of it. He is far too busy watching his food lest she think to poison him as well.

He keeps track of the parasite, now going by the name of Merlin and in service to the Pendragon brothers. He wages battle, and harries their forces, claiming land inch by inch.

No tactic is beneath him. Rowena mixes a poison, and Vortigern directs her in how to pass Aurelius' taster. Uther returns from battle to find his king dying in agony. But Merlin watches the food after that, even while moving a circle of stone across the Irish Sea to Albion to be Aurelius' grave marker. A magus who is deliberately flamboyant to mask his own skill at subtlety.

Few still remember Emrys, the bastard son of the princess turned Queen of Wales. But Vortigern will not forget, or forgive. Not him, and not the kings he serves.

With no other male heirs left in the line but himself, Vortigern strikes for London.

Blond hair graying fast, pale from ill health, Uther nevertheless meets him personally in battle that day before the city. He's tied himself to his horse. Half out of his mind with fever, Uther again survives the victory field, taking important prisoners for ransom and decimating their forces while losing but a quarter of his own in the undertaking. Rowena sighs at the foolish pride of men, rolls up her sleeves, and hides a rotting deer carcass upstream to poison the river. It's only a matter of time until the King drinks and falls.

He pushes onward steadily, exhausting his foes and rotating his allies between resting and reaving. The Britons call him Usurper now, for his claims to the High King's crown, the rightful heir that no sane and native lord will bend the knee to.

The Saxons win ground, year after year of raiding taking its toll on the people and the land alike. Famine eliminates as many as Slaughter, without enough people to plow and tend the rocky ground or harvest the crops, and Malady spreads when there are not enough people to bury or burn the dead. Vortigern smiles, certain of the end, patient for the kill.

The sword in the stone, a year after Uther's death, gives him some concern. He refuses to underestimate the parasite of an oracle again. But as time passes, it appears Merlin has, for once, been too clever even for himself. The sword remains lodged in the stone, unable to be drawn. Even if Merlin grows desperate enough to falsify a puppet king, Vortigern's spies will alert him, and poison will end it before battle even comes.

Uther is five years a feast for ravens and wolves when Merlin reappears at last, before the army poised to enter Londinium. At his side stands a single knight, plainly armored, a blank shield… and an all too familiar sword.

Behind them, a single tribe, united, ready to follow an army.

It is the beginning of many unchallenged victories for the Usurper's foes. At first, the Saxons are too glutted by victory and the promise of Valhalla to comprehend defeat. By the time of their battle at the harbor port, he and his soldiers are fleeing for their lives.

Flee like cowards. Trying to outrace a storm to safe harbor.

For a time.

As thunder rolls in a poor imitation of the beat of wings, Vortigern the Usurper wakes and smiles.

It took him twenty years, but he found and killed the white dragon again. Drained the blood into a barrel, and brought the head home as proof for his wife and father in law, to remind them why they must support his cause. They are preparing the new fleet even as he dreams.

Only a dragon can stand against another dragon, hm?

He really should thank the young magician, for giving him the secret all those years ago to defeat this last foe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Orkney Brothers ages: Gawain is 16, Gaheris is 14 and smallish for his age, and Gareth is a bratty 12 – who's very upset, because Gaheris gets to stay with Gawain as his squire, while Gareth has to go home with Mom and Dad. (He hasn't quite picked up the politics involved, so it's a bit of a case of sibling jealousy, particularly since Gareth is on the cusp of the appropriate age for squire-hood rather than life as a page.)
> 
> Vore Tullye and Gore Vellye: 'Spring Struggle' and 'Autumn Tumult'. Weeks-long devastating storms on Orkney that occur every year around the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, respectively. Local folklore recounts these as yearly battles between the Sea Mither, the female embodiment of benign summer seas, and Teran, the spirit of malevolent winter, whose voice was a gale and whose wrath crashed mountainous waves against the coastline. The Sea Mither wins in spring, Teran wins in autumn.
> 
> Aughisky: a mythical Orkney water horse, similar to the Kelpie. As Lot mentions, its preferred diet is human flesh. I borrow the idea from Gerold Morris' The Squire's Tales series.
> 
> Gawain's answer to Vivian: I draw on Fate Extra conversations with his various opponents and their criticisms of his chivalry to answer this.
> 
> Morgan's magic: With magical detection systems as a basic Bounded Field option in Nasuverse, I figured Morgan should do as little magic as possible to set them off while in the city. (I'm also still figuring out the Parameters system and trying to classify her magecraft.) For now, I'm limiting her magic to basics (but Morgan's an advanced student, especially in healing), with specialties in transformation (myth basis), alchemy, and crow familiars.
> 
> Dragons: the dragons of Welsh mythology have a dietary preference for mead rather than livestock or maidens. Their cries are said to cause natural disasters, plants to wither, animals to die, and stillbirths and miscarriages. See Historia Brittonum and the Mabinogion. I've also drawn a bit on the dragon in Beowulf. Y Ddraig Gogh is Welsh, literally translating to The Red Dragon.
> 
> Vortigern: Though belonging to Arthurian legend, his existence as a historic figure is considered likely. A 5th century warlord, he is said to have invited the Saxon mercenaries into England as a defensive force against the raiding Picts and Scots, when Rome's departure left Britain without a defensive force, and even marrying the daughter of their leader Hengist to seal the pact. However, they revolted, killing his son in the process, and seized territory, leaving the father to wander in shame and grief. Arthurian legend places him as treacherous advisor to Uther's father Constantine II. His connection with Merlin and the two dragons is told in the legend of Dinas Emrys; see the writings of Nennius and Geoffrey of Monmouth. Legend has Vortigern die as his tower burns. However, Nasu has placed him as Uther's brother and a still active foe early in Arturia's reign; therefore I assume rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated.
> 
> Merlin: Still a child, so not quite up to his adult level manipulations. He'll learn to be subtle as time goes on. But he still enjoys being irritatingly cryptic with his prophecies. I draw on a lot of his thought process from the translated bits of Garden of Avalon that I could find. See same sources as Vortigern, plus the Vulgate Merlin.


	9. VIII: Remember the Ladies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Deer-Shifter: Okay, mixed response last time. Fair enough; I'll try to limit info-dumps in the future. Let's get back to present.
> 
> Also, many thanks to Universe Creator for her help with Guinevere's personality and most of her lines, because Deer-Shifter has little talent when it comes to writing the soft politics and the complimentary insults that are the weapons of fine ladies and queens. Head over to Universe Creator's profile for 'Arturia & Guinevere: Another Story' - a set of vignettes that show more of Guin, in an alternate universe where she and Arturia manage something of a happier life together.

_July 527_

Once more, she's spent the day deliberately drowning herself in paperwork and bureaucracy, with short breaks for meals that she barely tastes. Paranoid for any odd bursts of energy or emotion that may follow, or any sudden sleepiness.

She watches everyone, no longer willing to focus too long on any one person and risk missing a threat standing in her blind spot. She learns their body language, their fidgets, their fighting styles. Is it enough? She thought she knew Gwen.

She deliberately chooses clothes with impossibly complicated layers of laces and clasps, clothes that will take time to get off, while still allowing her chainmail and quilted leather to fit over them. When she bathes, she keeps the wash quick and efficient – enough to be clean of excess dirt and wounds, but not to expose any vulnerability too long. A dagger remains strapped to her side even at night.

She will never be without a weapon again.

She spars against every one of her guards, and trains with full gear weighing her down, First with weapons, then again with nothing but her body as a weapon. Her sparring partners learn quickly to arm themselves similarly, and not to hold back, for she will show little mercy to them.

She has no mercy for herself.

Each day is a quest, searching for a bone-deep exhaustion to hit her, to push past the constant weariness that is all too easy to work around. The weariness that will ensure her final collapse into slumber – when she can put it off no longer, a time that will eventually force itself upon her – will be deep and dreamless.

But none of it works – because, while she doesn't remember going to bed, doesn't remember what she was doing at all, or even what the date is – she's dreaming now.

Surprisingly, it's not one of the usual nightmares. She's still dressed, still in full armor save her helm, still equipped with daggers and sword at her side. She's capable of moving, and she's doing so. Not that she can see where she's going, because she's a bit blind at the moment. Not from a blindfold – just a lot of light. She squints against it, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

Once, when she was about ten, something went wrong in the baker's oven, and a fire started in the wee hours. It was the dry season, and once the roof caught fire, things moved very fast indeed. She still remembers leading the horses out, trying to keep them calm as they were lead to the other side of the village, while her brother directed the evacuation of the children and elderly. Everyone else was either on a bucket brigade or tearing down other houses before the fire could jump roofs.

It was the brightest blaze she had ever seen or heard for many years, and it is nowhere near as bright or steady as the light she is now faced with from multiple sources. Too bright and harsh for daylight, and missing the crackling and cracking of wood that accompanies every fire. And there's nowhere near the sweltering heat that she would expect, if it were. Smoke may be hidden if one uses the right sort of wood, but heat cannot be disguised. Not even if some spell has turned her blind and deaf.

If this is the start of a nightmare… well, it's a very  _odd_  one, that's all Arturia can say of it.

She's standing in an unfamiliar street. An impossible street that could only exist in a dream. For one thing, it is abnormally clean – not a whiff of muck's odor, and no sign of any horses that might create such a smell. Instead, strangely shaped wagons, with metal roofs and doors, fill the streets, moving without any animal to pull them, but swiftly and noisily, and there is an unfamiliar stench of smog. Choking in its filth, but whatever the source it remains invisible to her eye. Thunderous grumbles at the ground level and short, blaring noises that come from no animal she has ever encountered pepper the street cries.

A magus must be involved. Especially since everyone around her behaves as though this is perfectly normal.

And the people! Not a single one of them carrying so much as a dagger or stave for protection. Their attire is equally odd, and frequently scandalous enough to make her blush half to death. They're clean, too, even the grungiest.

The clothes and the cleanliness are shocking. Arturia is no expert on clothes, but this isn't something she can ignore. Everything is fine – very fine, and very strange. Even on those she supposes to be beggars, in their multiple layers and built-up filth – but even the beggars are cleaner than she's used to see.

Short coats, and no cloaks – nothing longer than mid-calf, and most shorter than that, sometimes even above the waist. Fabrics woven more finely than the stuff she sees on nobles, sewn neater than the best seamstress in her employment might manage. Patterns more common than solids, and in colors that shock her when she automatically estimates the cost of some of the dyes. Particularly a very common pair of overhose, blue in various shades. To Arturia, blue is something only royalty and the wealthiest nobles and churchmen might afford – she can only assume that someone here has found a thread that already carries the blue tint, and uses it to best advantage, if the garb is so common. But the way the trousers cling to the skin… It's indecent.

She can't see much of the shoes on the men, but what she can spot in this crowd has a universally high standard of craftsmanship – incredibly fine stitching, well-fit leather and brightly colored laces. Some of the shoes are even partly  _white_. Utterly impractical, yet very common. Which implies… a lack of expense she cannot begin to estimate.

Her eyes and ears may have adjusted, but her head has begun to pound. So. Much. Light. So. Much. Noise. Like a battlefield or a marketplace, but far worse! So many people packed together. The buildings straining to reach the sky. She can only see a small patch of blue. It should be terrifying, but she's strangely calm about it.

_Where am I?_

No one sees her. Though they do not walk through her, they do not notice her, moving around her unaware. She would halt one to ask questions, but the language, now that she's finally managing to make out a few voices, is not familiar – rough and garrulous though it might be. Not a single word of Latin, nor Frankish, nor any Saxon tongue. Some of the sounds match, but none of the words. She couldn't ask for directions even if they  _did_  see her.

It is only when she turns to the riverbank, that she recognizes…  _Londinium_?

But a Londinium like she has never seen. Every building far too high-stretching, dwarfing the churches and watch towers, sure to offend the Heavens the priests spoke of. Light blazing out of every window – not even the richest of her lords could afford the candles for such a display, not even at Winter Solstice. A great wheel dominates one side of the river, but only by size. Beyond it, she can see a few stone towers, construction that is comforting in its familiarity, but stretching high nevertheless. One has a great white circle upon its sides near the top, with some markings on it she cannot make out in this distance.

Even the river is odd – the bridges are bad enough, but why have the boats turned to boxes without sinking? Where are the sails and the oars? She can barely recognize the curve of the banks, but they are unmistakable.

If some enemy has trapped her in a dream and has decided to catch her off guard with sheer  _incredulity_ … well, she has to admit they've done a fine job. But no more. Her hand tightens on her sword, ready to seek a foe.

A sudden shout of laughter from somewhere behind her, and the rest of the world seems to hush. It's the spontaneous joy that catches her off guard – though the voices are of a matching age with herself and her foster brother, they carry a pure emotion she rarely hears outside of children. A male voice joins the laughing female's – though she cannot translate the words, they hold a tone of protest, a wish for peace, that remind her of Guinevere in their childhoods, trying to settle spats of hair-pulling and competitions for the last tart on the plate.

Oddly, the reminder is not chased by the moment of nausea she has come to expect after the last weeks.

The King is still ready to face a threat, but also curious.

Turning, she spots a trio, scarcely out of teenagehood, dressed in equally strange clothes as the others but somehow more simple for the boy, and more elaborate for the girls, particularly the one on his left, currently trying to climb over his lap to get at the other girl, who makes a point of playfully ignoring such efforts except to stand  _just_  out of reach of the grasping hands. Judging by the boy's efforts to hold still on the bench, the first girl may be tickling him in her efforts to stay balanced, halfway sprawled across him as she is. Though their backs are to her, and their words impossible to catch at this distance, the honest joy in their tone, even the mock-angry growls, is soothing to her.

Nothing about the situation looks decent, for they can hardly be siblings with such different looks and hair color, and only siblings of seven or less would be allowed to frolic so in public, she is sure. But with the boy's red hair, and his companions' brunette and blonde, they are far too different for blood kin. Friends? Does it matter? Their honest smiles and shrieks of rage and laughter, even with their faces hidden…

Even if this were a situation where it fell to her to disapprove of it, she could not frown at such joy. She can only smile.

This city may be strange. But a world where people can openly laugh like that and not need to wear knives for protection… maybe this is the confirmation that she need not doubt? That her world will be worth it, and the better for it, when she succeeds in her dream?

Not a magus' trap. Just her own mind. Finally putting the shattered pieces back together, and remembering what makes it worth it.

When Arturia finally rises from her slumber, on the first day of the new month, it's the first time since her wedding that she hasn't had a nightmare.

She passed out on her desk again, so her clothes are crumpled and her neck is stiff and uncomfortable, but… she's actually gotten rest.

Even if her dream was truly a strange thing.

The iron armlet is cool and soothing beneath her sleeve. She rubs at it in comfort, and goes to find clean clothes.

She scrubs her skin with cold water, but not until it is red and raw – simply until it is clean. She pulls on multiple layers again, grateful that her wife has already risen and dressed. She will have to face her across the morning table, but Kay and Ector will be there as well.

She will push through this obstacle, even if the experience is akin to wading through a swamp in full armor. She will not allow herself to avoid her wife for a nightmare that Guinevere did not create, a crime her Queen did not commit. She will lay blame where it is due – at Morgan's feet, and at her own.

There is no other course for a just King.

…

No one is particularly eager for both food and conversation at breakfast, it seems.

Kay eats methodically as usual; after too many near-ruinations of reports when he attempted to continue working at breakfast, he sees food as a tasteless task, to be chewed through without choking, and then a return to work. At this hour of the morning, whether it follows a full night's sleep or a continuously burning candle, Kay is more inclined to find numbers or ale palatable than company that requires much conversation.

Ector chews slowly. He has good teeth for his age, only missing three, and the rest of them solid – the reward of good habits, general good health, and a great deal of luck – but they are beginning to loosen. He takes good care of what is left, even as he eyes the silence between the couple at the center as unobtrusively as he can.

Guinevere cannot find it in herself to blame him for the stares, no matter the flush of humiliation it provokes in her cheeks.

Far from the cheerful chatter of words and hands and eyes and smiles that he saw in the days leading up to the wedding, and even the wedding eve's banquet, the days between have grown more and more silent. At first, Guin would try to chatter as she had before, about subjects both inconsequential and serious by turns, but slowly her smiles grew weaker. These days, even her best efforts to engage cannot disguise the fact that her husband is ignoring her efforts.

Arturia dutifully entered her wife's chambers each night for the rest of the wedding week, aside from the night immediately following consummation, but had apparently brought work with her. Rather than sleep, she has done her duties of entertaining and administration until the guests left, before continuing her attack on the paperwork, and physically exhausting herself with spars with the various knights.

It was not obvious at first, but it soon became clear that the King was avoiding his wife with a zealot's fervor.

A single night of duty to the realm – more than slightly painful, but not completely uncomfortable. That is the last time she saw her husband smile, or look at her directly without a hand on a weapon. If she had received further apologies past the next morning, in the form of words or gestures, Guinevere might have had an explanation for the awkwardness that would match the guilt she sees in her best friend's green eyes – it is a longstanding bad habit, to take on the burdens of others and shoulder the guilt of all the world, extending back before the King took up crown or sword, before Arthur Pendragon's name echoed in the towns and fields and forests.

If Arturia is guilty, and avoiding Guinevere, it follows logically that Guinevere is concerned with the matter. Arturia is always logical. Therefore, there must be a logical cause.

Guinevere… has no idea what that cause is.

Her uneasy stomach roils, the food like ash on her tongue, curdled in her nose. She pushes her plate away; there is no use trying to eat when her thoughts twist in a perfect storm. The behavior will end when the matter is resolved, surely?

Self-disgust at her thoughts, repeating in unresolved circles of cycling questions, is the only reply in the echoes of her mind.

What kind of a Queen, what kind of a friend, can she call herself when she has so obviously offended, and cannot say how? She cannot offer a blanket apology when she does not know her crime; even if Arturia might accept it, Guinevere would risk repeating the offense she still does not recognize, despite multiple careful reviews of her own memory.

This is not a physical wound, to be cleaned and bandaged and sewn, watched until the risk of gangrene is past. This is invisible. That is the only certainty she has, beyond the certainty that a wound exists.

Worse than the pain of not knowing what she has done to cause this avoidance is the worry that still wells deep and rises quickly within her chest when she sees just  _how much_  Arturia is willing to run herself ragged because of it. Still, perhaps today…

Gingerly, her fingers creep across the table until nothing but the tips touch the King's wrist – or, at least, the five shirts she knows swallows it.

"Wart?" She forces a smile to her face, already regretting it; Arturia despises masks of emotion, and has to deal with enough of them from nobles who jockey for royal favor. In anyone else, Guinevere would name such opinions hypocritical, but she knows better. For her husband, it truly is a case that emotional stoicism is a matter quite separate from false smiles.

The King's eyes are masked and wary, a grunt of acknowledgement the only response available with a mouth full of food. Guinevere scowls inwardly. If she had been oblivious to this very moment, that lack of politeness would confirm something to be wrong. Normally, Arturia would chew her food, and then reply verbally.

No more evasion. She needs answers.

"Have you been feeling well?" Five shirts is four too many for anyone not wracked with chills. She's never seen her husband ill, but she wouldn't be surprised to find that King Arthur Pendragon confronts illness with the same mindset used to face any other issue that obstructs the path of ruling: easily defeated so long as determination and proper planning are used. To ignore any fatigue and continue to work as normal would be very much in line with Wart's general behavior patterns…

A nod, after a long moment where she thought the question might need to be repeated.

Not a 'yes', or a 'no, thank you', or a 'quite well, my lady', or even 'I'm fine, thank you for inquiring.' Just a nod.

Arturia has no qualms in shutting down a conversation she is disinclined to continue. But she generally uses firmer measures than a simple nod that may be translated in multiple interpretations by the observers if that's what's intended.

The Queen has a sudden urge to grasp the ribbon tied in the neat braid and steal it back until Arturia gives her a proper answer. Of at least three words. She used to be able to expect that much, at least, in the days when they were limited to letters.

Has Arturia completely forgotten the vows of 'in sickness or in health?' How can a wife support her husband if the husband refuses the aid? If the husband treats her as a stranger who just so happens to cohabit a dwelling?

Patience. That is the role of the Queen, to complement the wrath of the king, and soothe the people's grumbles and qualms to maintain the peace.

She is the Queen. She will be patient, and not scream in frustration or pull hair like a toddler.

So, as a patient adult, Guinevere reconsiders their dialogue, looking for a hidden meaning, or an answer already given, then mentally groans as another explanation occurs. Strictly speaking, she ought to be addressing her husband by 'his' title, or at the very least his proper name. 'Wart' is, as it has always been, a private nickname for private moments, increasingly rare since the coronation and wedding – a name used by the children that they once were.

If she's being answered with silence and body language for a misstep in court protocol at a private morning meal, Arturia ought to tell her that's the problem. Guinevere has no magic to read thoughts, and she wouldn't overstep such privacy even if she could!

But she is a married woman, and must behave as such. No matter how many years her husband has reverted in shyness and childish mannerisms.

Her smile stretched thin, she tries again, ignoring the warning crease in her brother-in-law's eyebrows. She is Guinevere, daughter of Leodegrance, and wife and lady to the High King, Arthur Pendragon – and she  _will_  have answers, or company, or at the very least a husband who has the common sense for minimum self-preservation in matters of food and rest.

"Perhaps you should take the afternoon's training session to relax a bit, my lord." Formality seems to comfort Arturia these days; the distancing of status hurts, but Guinevere will be patient and polite, comforted by the certainty that success will come eventually if she persists. "You seem a little… worse for wear." Nothing too criticizing in that phrasing. A little suggestive, perhaps, but her husband is generally oblivious to such jokes, and Guinevere means them in perfect sincerity – she is genuinely worried. She will not make light of this all too serious cloud on her husband's mind.

At worst, she expects that Pendragon pride to flare, in which case she can use it to point out the lack of sensibility in the current behavior, and possibly shame her spouse-with-a-child's-brain into a nap and better humor. At middling, Arturia is actually tired enough that the grunts and nods are unintentional, and Guinevere can glare at Kay until he postpones all meetings for tomorrow so the King can catch up on sleep. At best, she'll get an apology and an explanation, and all will be mended. Maybe she can convince Wart –  _no, Arthur_  – to take a walk with her? She misses her best friend.

Arturia stills in her seat, mouth halfway open, about to chase her food with the mug of small ale gripped in one hand. A wild animal, abruptly aware of a watcher, tensed for flight or fight.

Or at least, that's what Guinevere might believe,  _if_  she was arrogant enough to consider herself any sort of threat to Arturia Pendragon.

The Seneschal of Camelot shifts in his chair, his usual lazy drawl cutting the tension. "Speaking of relaxing, are you thinking of getting out of the castle today? I heard from the stables that Llamrei's been itching for a ride."

Sir Ector glances between his children in bemusement, obviously aware he's missing something but not irritated by the ignorance. It is not the spectator's enjoyment of tomfoolery at a mummer's play, but rather the eyes of a man who enjoys both a good mystery and watching people in general.

Arturia's eyes turn contemplative; Kay's suggestion is evidently worthy of consideration.

Guinevere brightens in pleasure. It's about time that Kay gave her an opening to lift Arturia's mood. She won't miss the opportunity. "That's a wonderful idea, Sir Kay. I myself would love the chance to see more of Camelot's countryside." Hopefully Kay or Arturia would take the broad hint and offer the invitation to join them on the ride.

But Kay snorts disdainfully. "Unless you plan on worsening the damage to your own mount's hoof, my Queen, you'd do better to spend today, at least, in the forge.  _Your_  mare needs a new shoe; she's cast the left front one, I hear."

She blinks, momentarily distracted from her goal. "I rode her but yesterday, and she was still shod when we returned; the grooms mentioned no such problem! When did this occur?"

Kay shrugs.

Her eyes narrow.

The King coughs. "Sir Kay, when did we last check on the order of spare practice armor for the guard recruits training?" It's almost a too blatant subject change, if Kay hadn't brought up the forge.

The Seneschal's eyes flick to his father, then downward. "…Yesterday, milord?"

"What?" Green eyes blink rapidly, shaking away the remnants of sleep, gaze flicking to their foster father. At Ector's confirming nod, the King's disbelief is only more palpable. "That was yesterday? Are you certain?"

Kay stares at her. "I would have thought you'd remember – given that you ordered me to check at the forge at lunch for other customers, so that you could guarantee that the place wouldn't be busy when you visited that afternoon. Yes, sire, that was yesterday."

Ector frowns at Kay's words, eye flickering over to Guinevere, and clears his throat. "Do you need to… hold this discussion in  _private_ , sire? I can break my fast elsewhere, if you prefer less or different company for the meal." There's a silent message here that he's picking up, even if Guinevere isn't; she is reminded of a door closed in her face, to keep a curious little girl away from boring men's work.

Secrets and lies. If it were politics, she might expect such; some men cannot see past the skirts she wears to the mind her father trained. But this…

_Don't you trust me? Any of you?_

A royal hand waves his words aside without a glance at his face. "No, no. I need extra time for the paperwork; this is the last chance I have to see you this morning, Sir Ector."

When Arturia speaks, it is good to listen for the words she says, and the words she does not. She reassures Sir Ector, but not her wife. She does not disagree with the suggestion that less company would be preferred.

"I'll see that a page places your horse for a re-shoeing with Smith Farran this afternoon, my Queen."

That absently condescending sentence – the implication that Guinevere is incapable of giving such an order herself – it's the last straw. One thoughtless moment, one behavior that answers her fears all too well.

There is no logical reason for her to take such offense.

But Guin is beyond logic.

She slides gracefully to her feet, forcing the men to stand as well or be discourteous. She turns to her husband, walnut irises hard enough to crack a tooth.

She does not yell, or air dirty laundry for the servants to hear. But her anger is unmistakable; even a banked fire can still burn fingers.

" _With all due respect_ , sire, I am neither blind nor deaf nor mute nor a lackwit. If I have done something to offend my lord husband, I would pray he tell me so I might make amends." The words are calm, but firm, cutting off escape in denial. "Tell me, what exactly have I said or done to make the trust you held for me vanish? Why do you avoid me like a terrible sickness? Did you really think me dumb enough not to notice?"

Arturia opens her mouth to protest, but the tumble of words is swifter. Guinevere will  _not_  give the undefeated King the victory of even one of her tears.

"Fear not, I'll not annoy you further with my presence. Don't bother sending the page; I'll take my mare and myself out of your way. You can avoid me if you avoid the forge; I'm of a mind to meet this smith myself." Her curtsey turns the normally respectful gesture into a mockery. " _By my lord's leave_?"

Silence. How can one reply to this torrent?

Arturia's eyes are dazed and wounded. Wart's eyes, as the 'lad' attempted to calm Guinevere, coax her out of the apple tree. A promise to catch her when she jumped. A promise Guin finds she cannot believe… and yet, she cannot help but listen to the sweet, sweet lies, woven of sincerity but lies nonetheless. There is a part of her still ready to repair her breaking dreams.

"My lady…"

Shouts from the halls cut Arturia off. One of the guard challenges a visitor outside, before abruptly opening the doors and allowing the man to stagger past.

A common soldier, face streaked with dirt and sweat, clad in light armor for swift riding. He brandishes a watertight leather wallet, sewn shut.

"Urgent news… King's eyes or seneschal's only… from the coast… our scouts…"

Wart is gone. It is King Arthur who turns, and bends to listen to the man. Even as Kay passes a knife to slice the wallet open and retrieve the reports, Ector has taken the Queen's arm, and firmly escorted her from the room.

…

One of the earliest memories of Emiya Shirou, after he left the hospital, that he can be  _mostly_ certain is not tinted by the veils of his ideals, is his father and Fuji-nee having an argument.

Fujimura Taiga, still a high school student herself at the time, had decided Shirou needed to find something to distract his mind from his dreams of the fire. Aparently Shinto mythology was not something she felt qualified to explain if her new 'little brother' had awkward questions on some of the geneology and marriages involved, or on religious philosophy in general, so she had had taken to reading him the story of Atlantis – a city that vanished in a single night, under the waves. A disaster that still had fire in its destruction – but an equal amount of water to match.

When Shirou's father found out…well. To say Emiya Kiritsugu was Not Amused would be a significant understatement.

Thankfully for Taiga, they hadn't actually reached the point in the myth where the civilization was destroyed – if she had, Kiritsugu might have revoked her babysitting privileges permanently. Instead, she had spent most of the week describing the city's origins, urban layout of concentric rings, technology level in lights and transport – things that the craftsman in Shirou was fascinated by.

As an older teen, of course, he eventually realized that Taiga was likely drawing on a lot of  _Star Wars_ ,  _Gundam Wing_ , and other futuristic series to give technology detail. She was much better informed on any of those franchises than she was on Plato's descriptions. Still, the flight technology, sailing ships, and pseudo-motorbikes she suggested for him was impressive enough to a boy with no memories of the movies.

Then, during his time in London, he learned where Taiga had first heard the story.

During his time with Rin and Luvia at the Clock Tower, he spoke with El-Melloi II on several occasions. Rin's somewhat-estranged sponsor is not a man prone to rehashing his time as a Master of the Fourth War, but he  _is_  willing to admit to a familiarity with the Fujimura clan.

It seems that, one night during the Fourth Holy Grail War, Waver Velvet and his Servant, Alexander the Great, came across the enthusiastic brunette. While most of the night involved helping out a puppy and catching a thief – the professor refused to elaborate on what was stolen, but his face turned  _very_  red – Alexander also spent part of it telling the two young people stories he had learned from his tutor Aristotle. Including some recorded by Plato. However, flight tech was added to the story by Alexander – and the description sounded, to Waver Velvet, suspiciously similar to a King of Hero's ship.

Emiya Shirou had laughed at that revelation, but he never believed the memory would hold more significance to him than entertainment; later, it would be remembered as a story concerning individuals that had no tragedy personally known to him, as such things grew steadily rarer. Even as Alaya's dog, the myth of Atlantis is a memory he holds dear. Possibly because it is a story with no heroes – or at least, no individuals named as such. This is a tale, unlike Camlann or the Trojan Horse, that he can read without grieving or cursing either side.

Today, however, he recalls less the myth itself, and more the way that Taiga told it to him. Probably because it demonstrates the way that history can be reshaped through retellings. Something that's become increasingly relevant on this mission.

The man known as Archer Farran to his neighbors is hard at work on the weighted practice armor for the guard recruits. It's nothing big – even castle guards don't wear plate, just leather and chain mail, but Sir Lucan has insisted on a set of gorgets as an addition to the current uniform, so that is his current project – a narrow, upright collar that won't choke the guards breath, and allows room for padding, but still covers the gaps and doesn't interfere with turning their head. He also has repairs to make to one piece, at the shoulders – apparently one of the recruits is fond of blows to the armpit, and his sparring partner found some of the links came apart when he removed the mail.

Archer's perfectly aware that his ability to run his forge without so much as a single apprentice to man the bellows – when most blacksmiths can't say the same – probably isn't helping the rumors that he's got some magic involved in his work, or that he's less than fully human, or both. Unfortunately, he hasn't got an apprentice to do that, so he's had to rig an elaborate system of levers and pumps, all controlled by a foot pedal, to control the great leather lungs that feed his fires with regular pumps of air.

The problems of any job that requires four hands in use at once are not solved so easily as the bellows, but there haven't been many of those yet. Most of the repair business goes to the castle smith, and rightly so – Archer does  _not_  wish to be accused of stealing customers. But every bit of work is helpful, even if it's tedious at times. He has to work, or he won't eat, and he won't be able to stay where he can help the only King he's even vowed loyalty to. It's as simple as that.

There's a part of him that scorns the low quality of the armor he's making,  _knowing_ what level of protection he's capable of crafting, and that his choice to stick to this time's standards of armor is protection denied to the men who wear it, a chance to be saved that he's refusing to give them – but then he reminds himself that armor only evolves as it is needed to, generally in response to the evolution of weaponry. Plate armor, after all, is something that only got created in response to the bodkin – a nasty, tempered steel arrowhead – in combination with the English longbow. But that's… hm. The Hundred Year's War?

And yet, he sees plate armor here, regularly. Only on the highest of noble knights, of course, but still. Plate armor. Hundred Years' War for initial development, so the 1300s. Over seven centuries away from the moment he's existing in.

Of course, that  _also_  matches the timeframe for when a significant number of new King Arthur tales are set down. Most of them side stories concerning the Knights, and sidelining Arthur's role from the middle of his reign in the process.

His lips twitch.

He's heard of the theory before, of how recording the tales of a hero can retroactively reshape the era that said hero lived in. But he never thought he'd get to live through such an experience.

Just as research in his Clock Tower days informed him on how the era that invented hot air balloons and basic planes also added the possibility of airships to the legend of Atlantis, so the French Romances and Sir Thomas Mallory, and even authors such as the Gawain poet whose names are lost to all but the Records, have reshaped this history by including descriptions of armor contemporary to their own lives in their tales.

He wonders how the Atlanteans explained the sudden growth of flight technology in their society.

Probably the same way people in this world explain how armor and weapons used by knights have abruptly had an exponential development in the last two generations, despite the lack of resources for improvement in farming technology. Apparently, history only bends and turns a blind eye when under the force of a Legend. Why should the lives of peasants be the concern of a Hero's Tale when the Hero is a Noble?

That odd here-and-there advancement in unexplainable and unpredictable areas is one of the reasons he's had to work so slowly in making changes – here is one area where Records are less helpful than personal experience. Thankfully, archery still is seen as a peasant's tool, or a noble's hunting weapon, not a threat in war, so it hasn't developed nearly as far. His abilities with the still-unknown longbow are an advantage still. Even in this world.

In this world, Archer's skill as a bowman… probably qualifies him as a wielder of a WMD.

What? If the Second Lateran Council deemed the  _crossbow_  'anathema to God', then his longbow certainly qualifies for such.

Of course, it's a simple shortbow he has on the wall at the moment. He doesn't want to give away the advantage. But even with that bow, a far cry from the one he prefers… he couldn't risk that damned contest. A part of him is still bitter about that.

Funny. Since when does he have a competitive side without getting a look at a worthy prize or opponent first? Is this what Fuji-nee would refer to as a desire to show off in front of a pretty girl?

Lost in his thoughts of the teasing his big sister used to put him through, he barely hears the door creak behind him. "Is the shop open for clients?" the semi-familiar voice of an older man enquires.

_What? Is it already time for him to pick up the motorcycle? I haven't done any work on that today…_  He's about to turn and call to Raiga-san that he'll be just a moment, when the clatter of horseshoes on stone cobbles outside startles him back to the present, and he remembers who and where and when he is.

He is EMIYA, current alias of Archer Farran, not Emiya Shirou. He is in Camelot, not in his workshop in Fuyuki. He is a blacksmith, not the unofficial motorcycle tune-up mechanic for a local yakuza boss.

"…Come in," he chokes out, hoping that he hasn't been silent too long, and hastily moving the in-progress armor away from the fire. He'll have to fix it later; the metal has already started to warp from his carelessness.

The man who steps inside is familiar, if not so much as Sir Kay or Arturia. Or perhaps just as familiar as the two most constant visitors to Archer's forge, in some fashion, for his mannerisms are retained by both the children he raised. Sir Ector has likely never been a handsome man, but his warm brown eyes are kind in the same way as Raiga's, and their codes of honor, though very different from each other, seem to result in similar attitudes concerning responsibility and family. Both men move like fighters who have continued training and maintained a good physical condition despite aging past their prime.

Given Archer's thoughts were lingering on Taiga, he's actually not too surprised that he mistook Ector's voice for her grandfather's.

But where Raiga unmistakably remained in command as head of the family through the last time Shirou saw him, Ector seems more comfortable the further from power he is. He remains as support to his foster 'son' and blood offspring, but it is Kay and Arturia who make the decisions and give the orders on the government, and Ector has never attempted to subvert them or advise them otherwise.

At least, that's the impression Archer's gotten. He hasn't actually met Sir Ector in person since that first day, when he removed a dented helmet to discover the young fool he'd been lecturing was the girl who was his mission. Ector had come with her purse, that day, and had done his best to pass it to the King as unobtrusively as possible. The older knight with deceptively warm brown eyes is a man well aware of the dangerously deep undercurrents of court, unwilling to let there be any suggestion that someone other than the King commanded the realm's purse strings.

Putting down his current project, he nods at the customer. Easier to think of this man as a customer, like any other customer, and nothing else. "If you'll give me a moment to put the fire to rights, I'll be entirely at your service, Sir Ector." No point in wasting fuel, or letting the fire die completely and have to start from scratch, and he doesn't know how long the order will take, or whether he'll want a fire going to complete it.

He carefully turns his body so as to not turn his back to Ector or the open door, but he needs both eyes to find the broken cart axle he needs under the wood chips he uses for kindling. Hardwood, old and dry, the axle will keep the fire burning slow but steady, not too cold, but not the sort of heat he only needs for actual iron-working. Careful not to dislodge the hot embers, he makes sure the wood has caught the flame before he gets to his feet.

"I've seen your work on pulling armor to bits and repairing it in the past, Smith Farran. And I've heard from my son and His Majesty that you've a knack for settling spooked or stubborn horses without anyone getting bruised." Ector glances around the shop, evidently seeking something unsuccessfully.

Archer represses the reflexive shrug. His current body isn't even thirty in appearance; careless insults to a man his superior in both years and class would be trouble that he doesn't need and is actually capable of avoiding fairly easily. But that doesn't mean he's about to play toady, either. "Are you here about a horse, then?" Blacksmithing in general is ironwork, but a farrier's responsibilities are more specific, requiring a knowledge of horse anatomy and at least four years of training – and even then, if a shoeing goes wrong, it can lame a horse for life.

Ector nods, half absently. "May I ask where your apprentice is? You'll likely need him for the job."

"What apprentice?"

"…You can't be serious."

Archer snorts. "Only a guild member can have an apprentice, or the apprentice will not be allowed to enter the guild either. I don't have an apprentice; I'm not allowed one, legally. Sir Kay is trying his best to smooth things out." Both of them were increasingly annoyed for this very reason; some jobs needed four hands at the anvil, jobs Archer could not accept at the moment. In the case of horseshoeing, the apprentice would generally be more useful to keep the horse calm and under control. Archer made do with a lead rope tied to a wall, quick reflexes, and his own knack as one of Wayland's students. It worked so far, even if it was troublesome. "It's never stopped me from shoeing a horse yet."

Ector appears doubtful, but too polite to say much about it.

Unsurprising. Still, horseshoeing is the job Archer took the most care to learn, given the involvement of another living being in the work. He faces that doubt with a body relaxed in complete confidence.

"So, your horse?"

The middle-aged knight sighs; he's evidently heard and remembered enough of Archer's brusque personality to not take it personally. "I should mention, Kay sends a preemptive apology for expecting you to solve things again. Your customer…"

Footsteps tread lightly across the threshold.

When the noblewoman walks into the shop, Archer cannot say he finds anything to be surprised about except perhaps her lack of escort. Average height, slender build, richly but simply dressed in a grey cloak for travel, the dark green of her skirt peeking through the gap along with one sleeve as she lifts her skirt to avoid stepping on the hem. Rich cloth, well-sewn and deeply dyed. Definitely a noblewoman, a lord's wife or daughter or sister at the very least – no matter how rich a knight might be, he couldn't afford to dress his family like that for an ordinary day.

Archer is an expert on iron, not fabric. But he knows enough to call her a noblewoman, even one that apparently thinks she's making a successful effort to 'dress down', to borrow a phrase from Luvia. The outfit lacks even simple ornamentation of embroidery at the hems, but that only draws more attention to the rest of the cloth – silk, perhaps? If so, it's  _another_ instance of art reshaping history, because he's pretty sure silk enough for a dress wasn't available except to the richest of the rich at this era; there aren't enough trade routes running the stuff out of China at this point…

He shakes his head. He's missing Ector's words again.  _So much for not getting distracted by a pretty girl, EMIYA. And you haven't even seen her face yet. Fuji_ -nee _would have_ so _much teasing material…_

She lifts her arms to push her hood back, exposing the auburn hair that is braided up and coiled around her head.  _Married or a widow_ , he notes absently. Only unmarried girls and prostitutes will keep their hair loose and uncovered out of the privacy of their home on an ordinary day of the week, even for church; but only a married woman would dare tie up her hair and leave her neck bare without even a scarf to cover it.

Trufully, he'd prefer a scarf over her head for a different reason than propriety: loose hair is nothing but a spark-catcher in a blacksmith's forge, and he prefers his customers not to get burned before they even place the order.

But the lack of propriety is another matter; even a married woman should have a chaperone rather than be alone with a peasant blacksmith with rumored fairy blood. It's a good thing Sir Ector is in the shop. But her manservant should really be in here as well, if he doesn't want to be  _more_  food for gossip.

Particularly since she's going to have to wait – it's first customer served first.

He's about to tell her that, as politely as he can – and possibly add that, if she  _isn't_  a customer, then his forge isn't a tavern for her to lurk in, and that doesn't change even if it's going to rain outside – when he sees Sir Ector slip into a low bow.

"Your Grace, I was about to bring him outside…" the knight says, politely as usual, but with the barest hint of strain in his tone. Archer isn't surprised. He's heard stories about this knight's lectures on good manners; the bow is a display of subservience fit to serve as an illustration for an etiquette book.

Wait… subservient? He blinks, and looks at the woman again.

"Smith Farran, this is your customer for today. I am but the escort. Her Grace is here for…"

"Thank you, Sir Ector, for your escort here, but I am capable of explaining my own errands. Smith Farran, was it? My horse needs a shoe replaced." The young woman steps forward, and smiles, sincerely, up at the man she's never met before, hand extended to the air.

Archer blinks down at her, nonplussed, at the hand she's extended in his direction. He  _recognizes that smile_. That smile that tells him the safest option to avoid wrath is to nod agreement.

…Wow. Here he'd thought Tohsaka had trademarked her expressions. Oh, wait – copyright law doesn't actually exist yet. That's the only explanation as to how scary females and their one hundred percent success rate tactics could have found him in the past.

Reflex suggests immediate retreat at a forced march. Reason sympathizes, but rejects it as an impossible option to implement.

Her hand is still there. What is he supposed to do with it? Kiss it? Bow over it? He's not a knight or a noble. What the hell is he supposed to do with it?

She might sound sincere and welcoming, but he knows that smile. This woman is sincerely pissed off. He cannot try to pacify her, he cannot afford to make her angrier.

_No wonder King Arthur married her._

Later. He'll ponder it later. He has a customer.

"…I see." He puts his hammer back in place on the side table, and straightens his spine a bit, gaining just an extra inch of height. "Where is the horse?"

Unlike armor, horseshoeing isn't a project that can be put off for anything but a lack of ready horseshoes for fitting or a hoof that had problems better dealt with by leaving the shoe off. There are tender feet involved, feet that get all too easily clogged with dirt or foul straw or stones that cut at the tender flesh. No horse can go unshod in the city – even ordinary stones lodged in a hoof cut like knife blades if left there.

If this one's missing a shoe… the walk to the forge will have been uncomfortable at best, and agony at worst. The fact that this one apparently couldn't make it to the castle smith a short ways up the hill before it could be dealt with says nothing good; it's far better to get a horse to a farrier it knows than an unknown person who it will be wary of.

"The mare is waiting outside, Smith Farran." Ector's voice is pleased.

The Queen's lips thin, her eyes narrowed at the knight. "Yes. She is." Short, curt words. Quite the contrast from Ice-Queen-School-Idol manners of moments ago.

Apparently, Queen Guinevere is not only 'capable of explaining her own errands', but is the kind of girl who takes offense to someone presuming to speak for her. Archer glances between them, eyebrow raised. Depending on who he responds to, he could all too easily escalate the situation and generate permanent ill-will against himself.

Better Ector annoyed than the Queen, he decides, plucking a leather satchel with his farrier's toolset from the wall. Especially since they've both stated that  _she_ 's the customer today.

"Let's take a look, then. Did you bring the shoe she cast, or is that missing?" Guinevere will know how long since the last shoeing, if she's regularly involved in her horse's care, as he hopes. If not, he can guess based on how far the shoes have worn down, and how much the hooves have grown since their last trimming. But he'd prefer all four shoes if possible for such an estimate.

Glancing up at the sun as he steps near the threshold, he grimaces. He's close to his usual midday meal time, but if it's a choice between food and working in the best light possible, he'll delay the food.

"That is just it, good smith," the auburn-haired woman states, strained calm in her voice as she steps past his frame, tilting her head back to face him once more, barely restrained annoyance echoing in every move she makes. It's not yet noon, and she already has the face of someone who's having a  _long_  day. "The grooms reported no such problems to me directly, and she returned to the stables without incident when I rode her only yesterday. My brother-in-law informed me of the issue this morning over breakfast; the grooms had informed  _him_  instead."

Archer frowned. He'd assumed they were out on a ride when the shoe was lost, and had made for the closest blacksmith to help. "…I'm sorry, did I hear you right? Sir Kay sent you here? When the shoe was already off, at the castle?" Disbelieving, he pinches his nose, trying to stave off the headache. "You know, most men think that their favorite  _alehouse_  can solve all their problems, via a mug of ale and a listening ear for their drunken rambles. Why have I been deemed listening ear and all-purpose fixer when I most definitely do not run an alehouse?" He'd best check his sign, to see if it still looks like an anvil and not a mug of beer.

Sir Ector chokes behind him. Archer ignores him. His attention is back to the Queen, her face a cross of irritation, curiosity, and intrigued amusement. "I thought you were coming back from a ride into the city, and the shoe fallen off only a few hours ago at most. As grateful as I am for the business, the castle smith would have been much closer. It's a long walk on three legs, and that's neither comfortable nor practical when you're seeking out a smith that the horse isn't familiar with enough to trust. Unless it's an absolute emergency – and again, if it was, I would  _hope_  you'd be decent enough to your poor mount to not make her walk farther than she had to, nor insult the closer smith by implying his skill insufficient for the job."

The road from the castle to his forge was cobbles and dirt, downhill from the castle, and nowhere near as clean as he'd like. The smell was…tolerable, compared to filthy London – the less said of  _those_  memories, the better – but for a horse, the real problem would be the stones in the unpaved road and other urban filth. What was going on here?  _Was_  the castle smith inadequate for some reason? Or, perhaps… Kay had needed Guinevere out of the castle, and manufactured an excuse?

_No_. His eyes narrow. "I won't ask why you felt the need to do that. But I would like to know why you've come to me, when you had a closer smith who actually has a good relationship with the guilds? Especially when you're clearly less than pleased with Sir Kay."

"Actually, the king recommended you. He intended to bring her by himself, but I didn't want to delay the shoeing while he finishes his desk work." There's a question in her eyes, but he has no intention of taking notice or giving answer.

"Oh? His Majesty's still overseeing everything personally, then? I'm fairly certain that methodology works better in practice when running a business the size of my forge than when running a kingdom." He snorts, wiping a rag to collect his sweat from his face. "But by all means, let's send  _another_  order, and push my backlog further behind. I'll be working through the night at this rate… Let's take a look. Perhaps the mare will be easier to work with than kings who want to alienate guilds, for whatever reason." He pushes outside, letting the queen and knight follow.

"And just how close are you to the King, Smith Farran, to question his methods more than his own advisers? Are you perhaps another acquaintance of his from youth, such as myself?"

He snorts. "Say rather, an acquaintance with his youthful  _idiocy_. He may be an adult, but he's yet to outgrow that if he's able to forget to check his own armor  _before_  he uses it in a tournament. Ever since I had to pry him out of his helmet, he's apparently decided to send any problems my way that have anything to do with iron. And then come and chat, on top of it. If his advisors are foolish or intimidated to the point they  _can't_  question his time delegation, that's a critique of them, I'd say. I don't give my loyalty or trust blindly any more than a horse would."

Suddenly, walnut eyes pierce him, and he freezes at the weight behind them. They are at once irritated and curious, hungry for knowledge with no prey in sight.

They remind him of Alaya too much comfort.  _That_  should be impossible.

Time to change the subject, and remind her of the reason she came here. Hopefully it will distract her. "Speaking of horses, let's see about your mare." He walks briskly forward.

There are two animals tied to the hitching posts. A solid bay gelding is saddled and bridled, standing easily on the ground. The other, a Welsh pony of roan color with a white face, stands at least a hand and a half smaller, equipped with only a headstall and a leading rope and the left front hoof bound up with cloth. Archer carefully circles to their front, never getting too close to their hind legs – horses have a nasty kick if they can't see someone coming – stopping casually a bit to one side so the horse can see him. "What's her name?"

"Marianne."

The mare's ears prick up at her name, swiveling to catch the sound. Archer can't help but chuckle at the sight, sharing a smile with the Queen. "I see. Care to introduce us, your Grace?" Leaning down a bit, he adds in a conspiratorial murmur, "I would never dream of daring to get my hands near a lady's hoof without proper introductions. She might kick me in retaliation."

Queen Guinevere coughs, trying not to smile at the bantering tone. "Certainly. Smith Farran, Marianne. Marianne, Smith Farran." Her tone is formal enough for the most sober court ceremony, but shaking with repressed laughter even so.

Archer smirks. "Thank you. Three more questions, and I'll start getting her used to me before I work. First, did you bring the missing shoe with you? Second, when was she last shod? And third, have there been any problems with her feet in the past that I should be aware of?" Curt words, nearly daring discourtesy, but professional for all the lack of courtly graces. He's a blacksmith, a pragmatic archer, not a knight of chivalry. He doesn't have time or use for such frippery. His courtesy is to treat his customer as a rational person of adult years, and he prefers at least that much respect in return.

The walnut-eyed queen removes a small bag from under her cloak, a stray shoe rattling against a few nails inside it. Archer takes it, removing the shoe – it's clearly worn down, with the nail heads worn away until nothing kept it on.

"She's never had problems with her feet before, to my knowledge, and I've ridden her for two years," Guinevere says firmly. "And she's due for another shoeing in five days; she's regularly shod every six weeks."

All regular, then.

For about ten minutes, he simply walks around Marianne, one hand on her at all times, absently stroking, getting her used to his touch as he moves his hands over her, checking if her hooves are level, looking for cracks or any damage, watching for growth and taking notes on what needs trimming in his head. She slowly relaxes. When he finally taps her tendon, the mare shows herself well trained, and lifts the hoof.

A farrier has two jobs while shoeing or cleaning the hoof, one for each hand: one wields the tool, the other helps the horse to balance on three legs. If two hands are required, the best option is to brace the hoof between arm and torso, or between the farrier's thighs. Either position requires hunching over to better examine the hoof – and leaves very little chance to run, if the horse becomes anxious or feels unbalanced, and decides to put its hoof down.

Worse, while the farrier is at work, he will have very little warning should the animal kick him – and, should it connect to skull or torso, a horse's kick can be fatal at worst, critically injuring at best. An arm or leg would likely be broken.

Some men might curse the horse for its self-preserving behavior. Archer finds himself envious of their instincts to live, and appreciative of their honesty: horses learn fast, remember long, and are brutally honest in sharing their opinions of other creatures. It's more than can be said for many humans. Small wonder that men like Alexander would honor their mounts with tombs of their own; Bucephalus earned his dues as much as any decorated officer.

Marianne, unlike some horses he's had to deal with, doesn't play tricks to force him to take more of her weight and wear himself out so he'll put her hoof down quicker. Nor does she kick, or try to take her foot back; a monument of patience, she waits while he picks out dirt and stones on her right front foot, wanting a comparison look for any signs of wear on a shoe still in place. Since he hasn't shoed her before, it's a remarkably quick display of trust.

He speaks half to the mare, half to Guinevere, as they set a price, and discuss the sort of terrain Marianne's been traveling in recently – mud, grass, roads of packed dirt or cobbles. Anything that could cause different effects on the shoes. They agree that a full set of new shoes is best at this point – there's just enough growth in the hooves and enough wear on the shoes to justify it. He removes the remaining shoes, nails and all, and pares down the dead growth with a hoof knife.

Finally, he's ready for a hot shoeing, untying Marianne's rope, and leading her closer to the forge. Every second counts while metal is cooling, and the distance is one he cannot afford to travel.

"The next bit is one I'll need my concentration for, your Grace – I won't be able to chat and work at the same time. You can either wait outside the forge,  _quietly_ , or you can go and come back for her in a couple of hours when she's ready. Half payment now, and half later, I think we agreed?"

She nods, and drops some coins on the table. He nods, and turns to select a few iron bars, ready to be pounded flat and then curved into the right shape. Then, he crouches next to the fire, and begins to build it back up.

"I'll return, then. Take the best of care with her, please, Smith Farran?"

"Of course, Your Grace." He stirs the embers to flame, and moves the bellows, grabbing the hammer and punch he requires.

She's about to step out, when she pauses, and turns back. "Tell me something, Smith Farran."

He looks up, somewhat annoyed at the  _further delay_  when he's right next to Marianne and all ready to look at the hoof, to see her brows furrowed; he can't guess what she's thinking. "Yes, your Grace?"

"Why… why do you treat me as you have?" There's no ire, only baffled curiosity.

It takes him a moment to process the question, and then another while he shifts the words in a futile attempt to make more sense. "…I don't understand what you're asking me, your Majesty," he's forced to admit after a moment.

Impatience flickers under the queenly mask. "You did not refer your questions to my escort, but directly to me."

He's still not sure what she's getting at. "Er, yes?" His voice trails into a question. "You're the customer, and the one paying, your Grace. Both you and Sir Ector said so."

A single brow arches. There's an art to control that fine over a person's facial muscles, and Archer's impressed at this woman's natural talent for it. "Most men," she informs him, slowly and deliberately, as if to pound the words through his head at a precise angle, "would prefer to speak only to other men, regardless of a woman's presence." She pauses, adds as if in afterthought, "Or her rank."

He blinks, then shakes his head, reminded once again how very different this time is. "Rank doesn't mean an absence of idiocy or a presence of wisdom, your Grace. I prefer to speak directly to my clients; the fact that you're a woman really isn't that much of a concern when doing business. And besides…" He chuckles, thinking back to those days, an honest smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, rather than the usual smirk that only twists his lips in self-mockery.

"I've been fortunate enough to be a brother, an adoptive nephew, a spouse, and a friend to some truly wonderful women over the years, and I've been honored to know them. And I assure you, I am not ashamed to admit that, had I ever treated them as though they had less of a capable mind than myself at any point, they would have reeducated me on the matter immediately. I will not disrespect their memory or their lessons by treating any woman as less than a person."

He pauses, lost in the memories for a moment. Taiga, chasing him with Tora-shinai. Ilya, with her devilish eyes and angelic smile. Sakura, smiling at him from beside the rice cooker. Rin and Luvia, throwing gems and casting spells as he attempts to dodge. Saber, teaching him the art of the sword in his father's dojo.

Somewhere beyond his awareness, an auburn haired young woman in a grey cloak wonders who the man is thinking of – and takes note, for good or ill, of the woman's role he did  _not_ name.

Then the moment is over, and he smirks as usual. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it never does to keep a horse waiting; otherwise I'll have to pick out her hoof all over again before I put the shoe on, and hot-shoeing needs to be done quickly in any case. She'll be ready for you in a couple of hours." He bows his head.

"I leave her in your capable hands, then, Smith Farran." The Queen curtseys, and leaves him to build up the fire, and grab an appropriate bar of iron.

Behind her, the smith's shoulders release an immeasurably small amount of tension, but not enough to fully lose himself in the work as usual.

Hopefully, she's ended with a favorable impression of him. He didn't say a word of opinion that he didn't honestly believe… but his words were hardly chosen at random, either.

_How might my own course have changed, if enough people had caught onto the Moebius strip that forms my own mind early enough? Caught on, and sat on it, and got me help, even if they had to_ drag _me out of self destruction to do it?_

Most of the problems in his case formed because he based so much of his identity around first his father's path – or rather, the path of Emiya Kiritsugu  _as_   _perceived_  by Emiya Shirou – and then around Arturia's ideals – again,  _as_   _perceived_  by Emiya Shirou.

Far too many of the problems in the original myth came from members of Arthur's court subsuming their own dreams and identities in an effort to further live up to the King's impossible ideals.

Hence, Archer's strategy to force the Round Table and the King's inner circle to forge their  _own_  paths, separate and equal. Each person he diverts even slightly from that original course is another person more likely to call Arturia out on being an idiot or self-destructive, if they only have the confidence to do so – without choosing to walk away, as Tristan did. Each success, another advisor who has the power to critique the King.

Of course, that plan was formed before meeting Queen Guinevere in person. Now…

" _And just how close are you to the King, Smith Farran, to question his methods more than his own advisers?"_

Now he sees a woman who has her own burdens, but places them aside for a mask of politeness. Much more emotional than her 'husband', but with the same regal presence, soft tones and courtesies turned to diamond-sharp weapons and a pleasantly warm smile made into armor. A girl, expected to act with a woman's responsibilities, who obviously cares about her spouse.

_Tohsaka's smile. Eyes like Alaya's avatar._

He can't decide which possibility is worse – if his mind is playing tricks on him… or if it's  _not_.

Either way, he dares not underestimate this woman again. He thought her a weak spot, her main danger in the chance of exploitation by Arthur's enemies. Now… now he knows a player in her own right. One with a sense of humor… and  _at least_  as dangerous as Merlin, in her own way.

_The Fifth Holy Grail War in its endless repetitions has let you develop bad habits, EMIYA._ Lazy _habits. Time to remember that assessing a game and its pieces requires_ personal _field observation, and not simply reports of others. Even if those reports are the Akashic Records._

_But how accurate are my own perceptions, to supplement those records…?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure all of you recognize the dream location. And the time. Fun fact about clothes – until buttons and buttonholes were invented around the 13th century in Europe, skin-tight clothes weren't really possible to make. Consequently, everything was a lot looser. It's one of the reasons Arturia is so shocked at jeans – even the looser cuts are much tighter than she's used to seeing.
> 
> The myth of Atlantis was first recorded by the Greek philosopher Plato, circa 360 B.C, but the events themselves took place supposedly 9,000 years earlier. Aristotle, one of Plato's students, would certainly have been familiar with the work, and likely included it in his lesson plan for Alexander the Great.
> 
> Alexander and Waver's encounter with Taiga is depicted in the drama CD 'The Outsiders' Performance'.
> 
> Archery and Medieval WMDs: Prior to the Hundred Year's War, archery wasn't a large part of European battles – the shortbow was too short a firing range to be effective against mounted armed cavalry, and the arrows were not powerful enough, so it was mainly seen as a hunting weapon. Hence Gareth's insistence last chapter that Gaheris has to be lying – because he believes that there doesn't exist a bow or an archer that could make that shot at such a range.
> 
> To give a size perspective: Longbows are 6 feet long from end to end, with a 300 yd maximum range in the hands of a trained archer, a possible fire rate of up to 20 arrows per minute, and a punch force that can go through mail coats – especially if the arrow is tipped with a bodkin, an arrowhead made of hardened steel and designed specifically to penetrate armor. However, a trained archer with sufficient muscle strength is needed to handle it… and his training can take a lifetime, with another skilled longbowman to help train him. One suggestion to get the best longbowman possible? Start by training his grandfather.
> 
> By contrast, a crossbow (European version first shows up in the 1200s) can be learned in about a week. A small bow mechanism mounted on a stock, it includes a mechanism to hold and release the string once pulled back, and is physically undemanding enough for conscript soldiers to wield, as well as being cheap to produce. With a maximum effective range of 60 yd, and a firing rate of about 10 quarrels per minute, it wasn't as tricky as the longbow – which allowed any peasant to become an archer skilled enough to take down a nobleman. Hence the choice of the Second Lateran Council to attempt to ban the crossbow as a weapon that was 'anathema to God' – not that anyone listened!
> 
> EDIT 7/20: My apologies for an earlier misprint that replaced 'shortbow' with 'recurve bow', which is a compound bow as opposed to a single piece of wood, and has led to several people rightfully correcting me on archery history. And one more analogy for the road: the crossbow is archery's version of an assault rifle - deadly, easy to use, and little training required. The longbow is a sniper rifle: much deadlier, but the person firing it needs more training time/cost than the weapon took to produce for the highest possible performance.


	10. IX: Make a Sound in the East, then Strike in the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arturia and Archer have conversation, Vortigern makes his move, we have another new character perspective, and even a couple battle scenes. 
> 
> Chapter title is a reference - let me know if you figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you guys somewhat like the update, I hope? It's been over a year since I last posted, I know. Part of that is one troublesome scene which I finally had to get rid of when it wouldn't come out right. Let me know if you guys want a deleted scene section elsewhere, and I'll think about possibly posting it.
> 
> But, to make up for it, even with the deleted scene, this is an extra long chapter, beginning a few weeks after where we ended last time. 
> 
> Potential trigger warnings for graphic battlefield violence, and the appearance of a man-eating supernatural creature.

_Second Week of August, 527_

In the month and a fortnight since the Queen's visit to the blacksmith, she has yet to have a conversation alone with her husband, despite her best efforts to speak to said spouse. Such a thing is generally difficult when the king will not stay alone in her presence for more than a few minutes, at which point some page or other will come running up with a message for this or that lord or knight, or a reminder of the king's schedule.

Guinevere quite justly calls it by name in her head: avoidance. Her husband, who she'd thought her friend, is avoiding her, as subtly and politely as possible.

The closest she's managed to spending time with Arturia is to take a piece of sewing and a chair to one side of the king's during counsel or audiences, and sit at her husband's side in silent support while she works, her attention pointedly on her work or on the petitioners rather than the King. Always in public, always with other people.

While Arturia never ignores her wife's presence, she does not acknowledged her verbally or with any public touch beyond the polite hand-kiss as they sit.

A marriage is two people. Guinevere cannot fix it by herself. She has gone so far as to leave notes. Notes, to her own spouse! She can't say anything of importance in a note!

She'd just like one answer. To know what happened, why she is being punished by her spouse when she has already condemned herself to be punished by the world for barrenness in choosing to enter this marriage with full knowledge that it would never produce a child.

But the one with the answers is avoiding her. Making excuses to do so.

At least, that had been the case for the first month.

But then scouts' reports begin to come in at odd hours. Arturia spends more and more time practicing in the courtyard or studying maps, snapping at Kay to track the food rents from their vassals and the vassals of vassals. There is an odd tension in the upper levels of the castle. For the first time in weeks, Arturia speaks to her, asking her to inventory their supplies of all food, wood, water, metal, weapons…

Preparations for war. But against who?

She gets the answer sooner than she expects, when a messenger arrives, both rider and horse half dead of exhaustion. Three days they've ridden to bring the news. News now four days old.

* * *

Four days since a pair of children rode a horse bareback into a town twenty miles inland from their home, arriving at dawn, and collapsed, begging for aid against a nightmare come to life.

Four days since the scouts had investigated, and reported back, telling of a sudden overnight raid, as thorough as it was devastatingly quick. A boat coming in with the pre-dawn light, somehow passing the coastal watchers without a murmur of alarm. Not more than an hour's travel up the river, rowed with oars muffled with cloth wrappings, hidden under the evening fog. A raid that was obviously planned by someone already familiar with the shore, to be so confident in a night landing without disturbance or risk of damage to the boats.

Smuggler's aid? Possible, certainly… But smugglers are generally locals using their superior knowledge of concealed coves to evade tax collectors at the main harbors. Murdering their neighbors is quite another story.

There was little to no defense. Men had quite literally been slaughtered before they had a chance to grab weapons not already to hand. No time to arm, no time to barricade the wives and children away. Surely, an alarm should have given them at least time to snatch up bows or daggers, or to bar the doors?

But no alarm bell had rung. No cries or screams. The raiders had been lighting quick to attack, and escaped as soon as they had set fire to fields and houses, and slaughtered most villagers – but not all, and why not all? Why leave some alive, let alone in any shape to pursue or escape?

What reasons for the raid? Not to steal resources, surely – the crops were not ripe or in the storehouses yet, and both burned. No slaves – the bodies might be mutilated, and left unburied under the sky, but not beyond identification unless fire or rot had touched a corpse. And the areas attacked had no common thread – empty buildings burned as readily as storehouses, shops, residences, barns – any structure with man's influence appeared fair game, even those not currently in use, such as one empty hermitage a good five miles into the woods. Yet not even 'man's influence' suited the targets of the fire, when the glaring exception was clear – no bridges had been touched! Wood or stone or earthen causeway, they remained intact.

That first report is nothing that makes sense; the words convey sound, but the mind refuses to comprehend the meaning.

Men, women, children, poor, rich, brave enough to stand and fight, coward enough to offer others to the foes' blades – it does not matter. They slaughter indiscriminately yet methodically, a paradox that strains comprehension. It appears mere chance that any escaped the blades. Who knows how long the slaughter might have gone undiscovered, with none to bring word?

Regardless of the unknown hows and whys, as green eyes lift from the report to meet the face of the advisors, King Arthur Pendragon has one certainty. Whatever the reasons, this is not a single raid. It is only the beginning, even if she does not know what has begun.

Scarce hours after the initial report, further tidings arrive from several southerly and easternly directions.

Only the first report comes from survivors, as it turns out.

Several of the reports are from the coastal watchers who live further inland when not on duty; most begin with attention to an oddity. One spotted smoke and raised the alarm for a possible forest fire. Another group of soldiers was bringing a regular resupply of provisions to the current sentries. In three places, sailors' complaints of a lighthouse gone dark leaving them unable to land prompted a lord living a day's ride away to send men to see if an accident or a wreckers' plot was the cause.

None of them expected to enter a nightmare of sacrilege, to have to frantically seek survivors or perpetrators.

"The amount of damage, costs of people and crops and buildings and morale, is climbing," Kay informs her. "But even if it stopped at this moment… I would say we are in for a hard winter. It is too late to replant any of the fields, even if we had the farmers, plows, and oxen needed to work them."

They stand across from each other at a small table, where the best map they have is spread. Several sets of knucklebones have been used to mark the spots of attack.

"Do we have any idea where they come from?"

Ector shifts a few reports from hand to hand. "None of the trackers have picked up footprints leading to or from the area, other than the locals. Our best guess, given the locations are along the rivers and the coast, is that they are travelling by water from across the Channel." He glances toward Cleges.

The white haired man scowls at his wrinkled fingers, callused with a lifetime of polearm training – a halberd in his youth, a quarterstaff since his first attempt at retirement under her father. He is perfectly competent with a sword, but she rarely sees him draw it. "My king, I regret to say that my spies only extend so far – and that is less than I thought, since this attack began with no forewarning. Several of those overseas have not reported recently. The one message that managed to get through this morning is one I would prefer to have verified if at all possible… but it is all I have at the moment."

It takes Arturia a moment to identify his expression; it is not one she associates with Cleges. Helpless fury is not something the old knight tends to indulge in – his default is stoic calmness or tranquil amusement.

"The message suggests the Saxons are massing again…"

Ector frowns. "So soon? I thought it would take another few months to choose a new leader."

Cleges laughs – but not his usual warm chuckle. No, this is a harsh, hacking sound, infused with gallows humor; a death rattle that suggests fluid in the lungs and useless attempts at expelling the problem. "Not a new leader, Sir Ector. An old one."

For a moment, the knights who served Uther before they served Arthur are instantly identifiable merely by their shared weariness. Each man buckles under twenty additional years weighing them down, loaded with cynical anger and pain – the scars of battling a foe that refuses to lie down and die, no matter what is thrown at him.

Then Lucan scowls, and turns to Arturia, dropping to a knee before her, his sword offered to her. "Your Majesty. I don't care how superstitious it is, or if it's poor taste to treat a Pendragon's body like a common criminal. When he's killed, I beg of you, _make sure you recover the body_. I want the head and limbs separated from the torso. I want them burned, the ashes buried in separate places, and the burial sites salted and glassed."

The request ought to sound humorous in its thoroughness, if nothing else, when said aloud. No one doubts that Lucan is entirely serious in his request.

Ector and Cleges make no effort to hide their repulsion at the idea.

"Executing a man is one thing, Sir Lucan. Desecrating his corpse, even if he's a criminal, is quite another!"

"Even a traitor is entitled to correct burial. What sort of precedent would you set with this?"

Lucan's eyes do not leave the King's. "I would set a precedent where a man who is responsible for two kings' deaths is not allowed to claim the life of the third king – as I should have done years before now. I would seek to go and claim his life myself, had I not my duties to defend the King personally or defend the city in the King's absence, as he commands. But I do request to deal with that body personally – to identify it, and to dispose of it."

Guinevere sucks in a sharp breath. "Sir Lucan, who has spoken to you, that you would call yourself guilty for Uther's death? That is at Vortigern's hand, not yours." Arturia blinks in realization, snapping her gaze towards her wife without reflexively flinching from it, for the first time in weeks. This is why she married her Queen, who can see what the King cannot.

"True. But vengeance should have been his, years ago. I swore an oath, as Captain of the Guard… and it has gone waiting and wasted these many years since."

Arturia sighs. "I cannot promise your method of burial is allowable. But we will recover a body this time. I promise. His identity must be buried in a tomb, and never to rise again, if this land is not to fragment into kingdoms led by feuding warlords once more."

Rising from her chair, she leans over the table, ignoring the ache of her back; she has leaned over this table too often today. "My lords, let us plan. The next attack will come, and when it does, I would like us to be ready and waiting. Sir Cleges, can we predict the next sites he will target?"

Cleges sighs. "My people are still working to confirm facts; I have little more than rumors, and none that I may verify, as I have said. The only fact I _can_ verify is that they are traveling exclusively by boat and on foot; the only horses' tracks were those already in the area, and there is evidence of a surreptitious docking for a boat larger than any local fisherman's at three of the sites. There may have been more than that, if the tide destroyed the signs at the other sites. However… given the choice to damage the sentry towers and the forts as well as destroy the crops, if they are not going farther inland, I recommend watching the settlements surrounding the forts of Branodunum and Regulbium." He taps the map in indication.

"That's at the other side of the country," Kay frowns. "Full East and North of most of the attacks."

"I am aware they are in the other direction, and the men already stationed there are most likely sufficient, so long as they remain alert. But if these raiders decide they can sail up the Thames to Londinium… they've already proven they can get past sentries without sounding alarm, if they're of a mind to." Cleges' wrinkled face further creases in frustration. "More likely, we need to worry about Portus Adurni, Anderitum, Portus Lemanis, and Dubris. And the shoreline in between them."

"Should we include the rest of the nine forts that the Romans left us? And the Isle of Wight, while we're at it?" Lucan grumbles. "We only have so many men, Sir Cleges, with all due respect."

"And only so much money," Kay adds soberly. "With the news of each fresh attack, more coastal settlements are holding back taxes to pay for better fortifications of their own. _Expensive_ fortifications that will take weeks to build, at that. Each penny they spend on themselves is less money changing hands through the country, and less money for us to pay and feed our soldiers with. I don't know if crippling us economically is part of the bastard's plan, or simply a convenient side benefit, but it's more effective with each attack we fail to respond to."

Cleges glares at them both. "I am aware. Which is why I suggest that we're going to have to re-employ the beacon fires, which I know for a fact have been recently restocked. You'll have to position your army where you can best make use of them, between the sites."

He taps spots carefully on the map, laying three markers down as he speaks.

"I have three potential targets that I believe they will go for, given their habits so far.

"There is Sandown, on the Isle of Wight. Fine beach for landing, wide and sandy, and the Isle itself would be a fine place to stage a further attack on both Clausentum and Portus Adurni. Moreover, the Isle is home to crops, which we already know they like to target, and has minimal defenses save what nature has granted it. If we lose the Isle – the place that has the longest growing season of all the country – then make no mistake, my lords, we _will_ have to import food, or watch our people starve this year.

"Then there's the white cliffs, at Dubris. It's the shortest Channel crossing, provided wind and weather are favorable. It also connects to the ancient path that the Romans paved, so an army can march fairly easily if they manage to get ashore, straight through Londinium and across the Thames, and then further north, if they manage to get a foothold. Again, capturing a harbor – particularly _this_ harbor – would cripple our trade as well as our defenses." A grim smile. "Two lighthouses at the harbor, which we already know they like to target. And all the roads beyond, and the fields and towns and villages along the way… Fortunately, we have a fort already there.

"The last is here, at Pevensey Bay. A wide beach. If you wanted to stage an invasion fleet and have a harbor ready once the conquering was done… it's an ideal spot. And the fort has increasingly fallen into decay since your father's reign. The only reason I would call it less than likely is the lack of rivers around it. If this is where they target, they'll have no cover for their ships, and no easy way inland without giving themselves away. There are relatively few settlements nearby to destroy, given the fens and marshes on three sides of the ruined fort. What they _will_ have is a perfectly defensible location, so long as they stay put. If you wish to draw them inland, and separate them from their ships… they will not have an easy retreat."

"If they land there at all," growls Kay.

"I expect they'll also target the Channel Islands, but unfortunately there's not much that can be done to reinforce them at this stage, other than to send a warning…"

King Arthur's head rises, slowly. "Sir Cleges, are you suggesting that I deliberately leave my people defenseless? I am the King. I took an oath to defend _all_ my people."

"I am saying you may not be able to send further reinforcements at this point. They have some fortifications and weaponry already there; they have heard of the raids by now. And you do not have the ships to send aid there, especially when I cannot give you certain intelligence that the raiders will stop there."

"You cannot give me proof they will stop anywhere, it seems," the King says bitterly, staring at the map, numbers whirling through a mind trained to calculate acceptable losses, remembering a time when there was no such thing, not to her. Her back is beginning to ache from the prolonged hunched position, a sign of age she rarely has a chance to observe in physical effects. She ignores it. She has a battle to plan. How many men can she place at the Isle? At Londinium? At the beaches near Dubris and Pevensey? At least she knows that a beach is necessary if they want to bring _all_ the men ashore – the flat-bottomed hulls that are preferred in Northern ships tend to drift sideways if left in the water, so they must be dragged ashore if the men want a way to leave.

"…But your suggestions are the only strategically viable option."

"What of Londinium, if you worry about them coming upriver?" Merlin inquires. It's the first time he's spoken in the meeting, uncharacteristically focused and silent.

Lucan shakes his head. "The city of merchants and soldiers can defend itself, given fair warning. We have enough of the defensive walls intact to keep it from being taken. I request you not go there, sire – Vortigern knew the ground well enough to make Uther's victory costly. He travelled within three days of the city before we got warning of it, and we barely made it there in time to hold him off from the walls."

Ector snorts. "Londinium was a secondary goal that day, Lucan. Vortigern got exactly what he wanted – the king's location. Whether he slaughtered his brother on the battlefield that day, or had his witch-wife poison him later, it mattered little so long as the Pendragon was dead!" Shaking his head, he turns back to the maps. "Supply Londinium with a good commander who knows Vortigern's face – in fact, make sure that there are at least two people who can identify the Usurper on site at every location you send men to, sire. Lucan is right about making sure we have the body of the right man when this is over. The fortifications and the men already there are loyal and knowledgeable; leave them to the work they've trained for, my king, while you focus on more difficult problems of defense. For example, where do you plan to stage your main army?"

A grim smile, as the young King selects a carved dragon, placing it southwest of Londinium. "Guildford."

Lucan nods, slowly. "Midway between Londinium and Portsmouth. Twenty-seven miles to Londinium, and twenty-six miles from there to Camelot, if you go over land."

"Not to mention, the Sand Ford is there, straddling the Old Way, and that road connects Seaton on the southwest coast to Rochester, Canterbury, and several ports on the south-east coast. It's the perfect place in between the raiding locations to position the bulk of the army," Kay murmurs.

"And the perfect spot to catch him, if he starts marching down the road from either spot." Teeth flash in a wolf's smile. "This kinslaying usurper has killed enough of the people he claims responsibility for with his games. I doubt he'll resist a chance to come and take another crack at killing me, if he and his men know where I am; he can't risk a reputation for cowardice after our last encounter. Scouts at each village and the beacons to send warning will do the rest of the work."

"Even with warning from the beacons, the response will be slow if the army is not already there," Cleges sighs. "But without a navy of our own, we cannot stop them from landing. We must do our best not to give them more than a day unimpeded, lest they tread inland and continue their mischief." It goes unsaid that a proper navy will take years to finish building – the single year since Vortigern's expulsion is not enough for the ship yards to have crafted vessels sufficient, and no vessel built under Saxon rule went to any service save the Saxons' own.

Merlin frowns. "How do you plan to ensure he doesn't just continue his raiding tactics? If he's aware of the economic effect, he could destroy the country that way, simply by continuing his current _modus operandi_."

"He could," the King agrees, "if he were working with troops that were more loyal to him than to profit, vengeance, and their promise for land. But the Saxons expect rewards when they raid – slaves, treasure, goods. In his efforts to terrify the country, Vortigern has taken none of those things when he attacks. It's worked, but it also means he can't pursue the tactic overlong without grumbling, restive troops. And he's already been using it for nearly two weeks – fifteen attacks. He can't continue to use it beyond another five attacks at most if he wants the soldiers to stick around. He needs to escalate, or change his tactics so he can pay the raiders with their choice of loot. That means a bigger attack farther inland."

"Last time he did that, he attacked Londinium, remember? Not the first time, either," Merlin notes. It isn't a disagreement, not quite; just a clear refusal to put blind faith in this plan without first double-checking all of it. "You plan to use yourself as bait to make sure he attacks where you want him to? How, then, do you intend to hide the army you have with you?" His eyes narrow. "I can't make you a stable magical gateway between the distances you want to cross, not for you, not for a small strike force, and certainly not your entire army. That kind of working takes months of preparation if you want it to remain stable at that kind of distance while limiting who's allowed to cross it. And if you plan to make me create an illusion of you at the head of each force, I refuse. That was a political disaster when your father tried it—"

King Arthur snorts. "If I wanted that strategy, I'd use body doubles, not magic. I need your eyes, Merlin. Your eyes, and your magic to pass messages quickly over short distances. How many familiars do you have at your disposal?"

"One."

"Can you make more? Owls, ravens, badgers… I don't know what's best. Anything with good eyesight that you can monitor at a distance. I need eyes in Londinium by the Thames, and by the ports along the coast. We need to know which direction they are coming, and if they decide to split their forces. If I only get warning by the time they're sighted from shore, it will be too late. Unless we're already moving." A pause. "Also, shore up the magical defenses here, please. I won't rely on those, or on your communication, to the extent of fully leaning on them, but they are the swiftest warning system we have."

Merlin frowns in thought. "…Doable. At least I won't risk biting my tongue from trying to cast spells mid-battle this way; once I activate them, they'll stay on their own. Sword and staff for me, once it gets to the actual fight."

"I wouldn't expect anything else, Magus of Flowers."

"Who will you be leaving to guard Camelot, sire?" Lucan inquires.

"You, and half of the able-bodied men I have here will stay, under your command. In addition, all those with arms training must stand ready to defend. Let the women and children of the lower town be gathered closer to the castle, and stay within its defenses – this must happen the same day the army departs. Have them bring enough supplies to feed themselves for a month. This business should not last beyond then."

Lucan's expression does not flinch at the knowledge that he will not be allowed to seek Vortigern's death. Still, Arturia feels compelled to add, "I will send someone back to relieve you of command as soon as we have the body for identification, to stand as witness to its disposal." Lucan bows in acceptance of her judgment.

"And the army's supplies?"

"We will take them from coastal villages whose inhabitants have gone to shelter in the towns." The king is not blind to the unhappy looks from around the table at this notion. "Better us than the raiders – we'll reimburse them for it, and it gives the raiders one less target."

Guinevere scowls at the map. "And it is utterly impossible to build and fortify bridges to block any passage upriver?" It's a question asked more to ensure that a potential solution has not been ignored than anything else; they're all aware that if it were a feasible solution, Arturia would have already ordered it.

"Not in the amount of time we have, I fear. Not even for foundations," Kay sighs. "Certainly something that we will implement next year though."

If there is a next year. But no one says that aloud.

"Even if we had the time, it wouldn't solve the issue of beach and harbor landings," Cleges says briskly. "Just inland targets within a few hours by river travel."

"For now, let's plan for Guildford," King Arthur says. "We'll split our forces in two for marching. Sir Kay, I'd like it if you could hide your men here…"

* * *

It's difficult to find a moment to slip away amidst the preparation for war, but Arturia is desperate to get out of the palace. Her wife is no longer trying to actively corner her, busy with her own work of inventory. But the memory of those accusing, uncomprehending eyes pierces Arturia worse than any splinters, and she cannot rest. She needs a moment of normality, a moment to remember what she's fighting for, a conversation that will not remind her of war or responsibility or the consequences of kinslaying. Consequences that will not disappear even if the deed is to avenge the same crime.

Once, the stable was her sanctuary from people, but right now, the horses and their caretakers are busy with their own preparations.

Now, her sanctuary is a forge – and she is proud to say that if one good point has come of the current crisis, it is that Farran has entered the blacksmiths' guild. If only so that they have enough workers to keep up with the demand of weapons, new or in need of repair.

This will be her first visit since that news came. Even if he's working, he'll let her stay if she's not in his way, even talk if she's quiet when he requires concentration. He always has before, anyway…

Furious, swift, high pitched, the hammer sings to her ear, even through the door of the forge. Farran's evidently gotten a nice start on his assignment of spearheads for the guards. Arturia thinks of her own spear, back in the castle, and shivers at the thought of it, absently rubbing at her bicep. Beneath her sleeve, Farran's armlet grips her muscles like the hand of a friend. If he crafts weapons as well made as this jewelry… she doubts his blades will let any of her people down. He's steady in a way that other people expect her to be, and the same goes for his work – it may not overwhelm with a single blow, but it's reliable, and it always comes back for more. Powerful as the fairy weapons are, sometimes they're _too_ powerful for her taste. Maybe she'll commission something more ordinary from Farran once she gets back. A personal practice sword, perhaps, or maybe a dagger.

"The shop is closed!" a voice booms from the inside before her hand even strikes the door. "I'm already busy with the orders from the king, same as any smith in this city; whatever it is, I doubt I can attend to it for a week. If it isn't immediately needed horseshoes, come another time, because I'm already flooded with this work!"

Arturia flinches in surprise, before firming up her courage. There's no avoiding this conversation. Farran deserves to be told in person why he's been asked to stay in the city, excluded from the call to arms.

"Is the smith free for conversation while he works then?"

Silence. The hammer's song is halted.

Just as she's about to call out again, his voice returns, gruff and strained. "Yes, sire." There's a snarl in the words, half bitten off, but still as dangerous as a sharp and rusty scrap of metal.

Taking a breath, Arturia reaches for the latch and enters the smithy, shutting the door behind her.

The shelves no longer collect dust on goods finished and unsold, crowding onto the floorspace, but gleam with newly finished orders. In one corner, a stack of spear shafts wait, covered in a leather sheet to protect them from sparks. On the shelf above them rests a stack of nearly finished spearheads, waiting for heat-proofing and attachment. She hopes Farran will have less worries lining his brow and haunting his sleep now that he's getting a chance to prove his reputation.

The bellows begin to creak again. It seems Farran has modified his system yet again since her last visit, the complicated pulleys and foot pedal replaced with a simple hand-lever extended at eye level above one side of the hearth. One hand works the bellows while the other grips a pair of tongs, placing the cooled iron back in the glowing charcoal.

He glances over to her with half an eye, clearly waiting for her to speak. That minimum of attention isn't because he needs to concentrate on his work; Arturia's seen that before. The spearhead project at the moment requires little more than both hands and half an eye, a fact that generally speaks only to Farran's skill. Right now, his focus is an avoidance tactic. This won't be one of the days when he's willing to tease out the reason for her visit. If she doesn't speak up, that half-glance and sullen silence will be the sum total of his acknowledgment of her presence.

She shifts her weight to her other foot, then back again. Clearing her throat, she tries to move her tongue.

"I suppose congratulations are in order. Kay tells me you've been accepted into the guild."

Pleasantries are supposed to be a good place to start, right? Except, she shouldn't have said 'suppose'. Farran deserves that membership and its benefits, and they both know it. 'Suppose' implies doubt.

He doesn't stiffen or relax, his hand never ceasing its pump of the lever, rising and falling. "Yes. I suppose problems fall over their own feet to solve themselves, when the king or the king's brother takes so pointed an interest." His tone is flat as one of those hammer-pounded metal bars turned to sheets. The absence of his usual sarcastic drawl, even as an undertone, is strange enough that if she couldn't see his lips moving she wouldn't be sure it was him speaking.

And his word choice is odd, too. Maybe she'll make more sense of it if she says it out loud? "Interest… yes…" She frowns, still puzzled.

"You have another word for it, sire?" He pauses the bellows, extracts the glowing iron bar with the tongs, and turns back to lay it on the anvil. Picking up a hammer, he begins to tap the bent end of the rod, deepening the curve around the anvil's horn. It's a slower rhythm than what she heard before entering the smithy, likely so he can hear her while keeping both eyes on his work.

No point dallying. Time to see how bad the damage is. "Farran, was it Kay or your guild's head smith who informed you that you'd be staying behind in the city to forge for the guards?"

His hammer pauses in its arc, long enough that its next ring is a half-beat later than she anticipated. "…My new guild's head, Your Majesty."

Arturia winces. Addressing her formally every time he speaks to her? She expected him to be angry, and justifiably so, but this… is awful. With each reminder of the divide between their ranks, the crown's weight presses deeper into her skull, and the king's stoic face begins to consume her own.

She pushes past it, determined to continue the conversation. If Kay wasn't the one to inform him…

"Then he didn't tell you why." Her brother won't have gotten the chance even if he came later with that purpose, if this is the mood he found the smith in.

Farran laughs once, a single bark devoid of any real humor. "He didn't have to."

The ringing strikes are slowly but steadily picking up speed, as the curve of the spear socket increases from a half-circle to a gibbous moon. With each hit piercing Farran's words, the forge grows hotter and more stifling.

"There's only one reason someone of my age, with no obvious physical or—" _Clang_.

"—mental deficiencies to keep me from fighting fit—" _Clang._

"—would be excused, and that's—" _Clang._

"—the king's favor." _Clang._

"But I haven't been—" _Clang._

"—ordered to join—" _Clang._

"—the city guard, only—" _Clang._

"—to attend on—" _Clang_.

"—them. Which makes—" _Clang_. "—it—" _Clang_. "—an—" _Clang_. "—excuse—" _Clang_. "—that's—" _Clang_. "—clear—" _Clang_. "—to—" _Clang_. "—anyone!"

Yanking the cooling metal away from the anvil, he gestures at her with the tongs-extended spearhead, the socket pointed directly at her throat. His metallic eyes meet her own for the first time today, and Arturia finds herself recoiling from what she sees there. There is none of his usual fondness or mild irritation in those grey eyes today – only the gaze of a predatory hawk, sighting a target.

The moment is broken when he sets the half-shaped spearhead down momentarily on the anvil to pick up the socket-end with the tongs instead. He turns away to thrust the unfinished blade-end back into the charcoal to heat, his free hand returning to the bellow's lever.

Glancing to the side, forcing her hands to move away from her automatic grip for a sword, Arturia is shaken. She has somehow never considered Farran to be a threat before, not to her, even when fully aware of his potential to be a threat in general. Tall and broad enough to loom over every other male she can think of with ease, he nevertheless embodies the image of a gentle, if habitually grumpy, giant.

Her eyes catch on the unstrung bow on the wall, clean of dust in a way that speaks of frequent removal and use rather than general care for the weapon. Ector's words come to mind – that Farran may be a personal name and 'Archer' a former profession. If that's true, and the soldier-turned-smith still regularly practices his skills for battle…

Of course. Any soldier worth his weapons would be outraged at the slight on their skills, to be delegated to any role less than a proper guard for the women, children, elderly, and infirm. To be sent to serve under the actual guards is worse than any formal demotion.

Formalities are inadequate, but they're all she has left when she gropes for words. The phrase, 'I am sorry', is a struggle to arrive at, and insufficient without an explanation for her decision attached.

"Forgive me, Goodman Farran. Clearly, I have offended you when I did not intend such. I merely—"

"Do you realize, sire, that if I had a wife or daughter, she would currently be rumored to be your mistress – nay, your _whore_ – and her reward for services would be assumed to be my life's assured safety from the threat of battle?"

Farran's irreverence is a matter of course, but ignoring someone's words, to speak over and through them, is shockingly out of character. Not even the rudest customers endure such treatment from the ever-professional smith. Then, the implications of his musings hit her like the frozen contents of a washbasin on an icy midwinter morning, leaving her scrabbling for stability with a clumsy grip on the shelf.

He's accused her on occasion of naivety, pigheadedness, and a lack of common sense – but never once has he suggested that she might be bribable with a pretty girl's skills in the bedchamber. That he even suggests the matter as a hypothetical rumor speaks volumes of the fury behind his frozen features, dissent and the restrained urge to riot bubbling like nine-day-old porridge on a testy stomach.

"As it is," Farran continues, bellows pumping steadily and furiously, "the current suspicion is that you want me away from the battlefield because I might be a spy for the usurper."

Oh, hell. This is the trouble caused when she paid Farran in a crown all over again. If the Smith's Guildmaster not only implied such, but _believes_ what he's saying… then current rumor is implying that she's asked him and his colleagues to harbor a known but unproven traitor in their guild.

How could anyone think that? Farran is the most loyal man she's ever met, without any of the pomposity or officially witnessed vows that men of greater rank swear and set store by. How could anyone who's met him believe he'd betray his home like that, when he's worked so hard to settle here for good?

"Funny how that rumor assumes that you'd trust me, a spy, in the same city as the wife you'd leave behind," Farran sneers. "Unless it _has_ taken that into account? Do you care so little for the life of your queen?" His glance at her flicks from head to toe, lip curling in contempt.

Guinevere? He dares bring Guinevere into this? They've met only once, when Guinevere was from all accounts at her best, and he thinks she could and would do that to her best friend? A woman _he_ acknowledged as having a worthy mind, and treated as an equal customer, and he _dares_ imply that Arturia would risk her unprotected? Fury sparks, raging past worry and sorrow. "It is precisely because I care for both your lives, and believe in _your_ fighting skill and loyalty, that I want you to stay here, Farran the Smith!"

Farran's arm freezes on the bellows' lever. There is a ringing silence, unbroken save for the crackle of the fire.

The smith straightens, turning to face her with a scowl and leaving the iron unattended in the charcoal as he takes the two strides to the anvil, bending to brace his hands upon it while maintaining eye contact.

He's going to yell at her, for not asking him what he wanted, and for making him less than a bodyguard who likely won't fight. Perhaps he'll even chide her for her rumored neglect of Guinevere, now that her reaction has proven her wife a sore point of discussion.

Fine. She might be in the mood to yell back at this rate. Kings do not back down.

"So… not only do you not trust your advisors to question your decisions enough, but now you do not trust your city and castle guards to adequately protect your queen?"

Arturia blinks, missing the instant his face shifts. His scowl smooths, leaving only his lips to twist into that familiar smirk of ready mockery and self-disparagement.

Her shoulders relax under the cloak automatically at the bantering tone – hopefully he's willing to listen now. "Does that mean you're volunteering, Goodsmith Farran? Because I can think of no other soldier who I'd trust more, if the situation occurs."

Her tone is a match for his banter, but she means those words. Even without having ever seen him fight, she knows the way he moves, the way he handles his deadly merchandise. He's killed before, when he's needed to. He's not a murderer, but he knows how to pay in blood for his own life.

The last traces of the frown fade slowly, banter giving way to gravity. He folds his arms, raises his eyebrow. "Do I have a choice?"

A request from the king can have the force of a command from any other person. 'Optional' is not as much of an option, Arturia has learned, when a king clearly prefers a particular answer. Farran is more aware of that than her. He lives a life where 'requests' are anything but, if they come from a noble customer, and refusing has consequences.

But it still bewilders her that he asks her that. "Of course you have a choice," she says, slowly, carefully. "You're my subject, not my slave."

She doesn't want any more misunderstandings here, regarding their relationship. She doesn't want him to assume double standards of it, expected to be her friend and refuge, but forced to follow her orders at the same time. He has to understand that he has a right to refusal, even if there are more limits to it than she likes to admit.

"I, as the king, have an obligation to protect my subjects, and that includes you."

She hates to acknowledge her own position in this forge, calling him by name, when he calls her 'sire', 'your majesty', 'sir', or 'my king'. But she has to, right now. She has to make him aware that she recognizes this situation as a bind. He deserves her honesty.

"And… as a person, I have a wish to protect you…" She hates her own hesitation, the way her voice lowers without her consent. She maintains eye contact, trying to impress that this is truth, that she believes it, even if she has trouble with the words for it. "As my… friend?"

She watches his lips part, drawing in a breath, and raises her hand to halt what is likely a chiding she's more than earned. "But that doesn't take away your free will," she adds, almost too quickly, letting her hand drop as soon as the last word is out.

Yes, she wants him to stay here in Camelot, but she'll understand if it's too much to ask him to be her friend as well. He evidently resents her now. That's fine; she won't blame him. It's a selfish desire of hers, dragon and hoarder of people that she is, to want one of her precious people to be out of harm's way. She hates the risk of losing him, but would rather he stay alive and a stranger than a friend and dead.

But… even so, she can't cage him up, blinding him with a hood and hampering his feet with jesses like one of her hawks.

Farran's eyebrow lowers, his arms slowly uncrossing as a mixture of emotions runs across his face. Pain, anger and grief she can glimpse, if briefly. The rest are as visible as the riverbed beneath the surface of a muddy, swollen stream: that is to say, hidden by the rushing waters over it.

"…I see." He steps around the anvil, ignoring the unattended spearhead still in the fire as he moves closer to her. His face has smoothed into something both blank and raw when he stops in front of her and extends his right hand.

She blinks, uncertain, then glances up at him. "Farran?"

She doesn't know what this means. She can't read him, and she needs a hint as to what he wants. Is he asking for a handshake, as agreement to signal that this is an end of friendship, and the start of a purely business relationship? Or is he trying to pull her in closer for a punch? Not likely, considering how much provocation he avoids as a general matter of course, but anything seems possible today.

He shakes his head, a small but genuine smile crossing his face at her bemusement. "Archer. And should it fall to me, I will defend your city and your queen with my life… my friend."

Arturia can feel a wide and likely foolish-looking grin growing across her face. She doesn't care. She couldn't care less. Raising her own arm, she clasps his elbow, and lets him clasp her own. It's a warrior's shake, a gesture of trust and comradeship.

"Thank you… Archer, my friend."

His fingers' grip on her elbow is just as firm and painless as the iron armlet higher on her bicep.

* * *

Gaheris is not a coward. If he were a coward, he wouldn't bother coming to weapons practice and its near-certainty of public humiliation each day.

"No, no, use your sword, boy – don't just dodge! That only works in a one-on-one fight! Block! Attack! Defend! Deflect! Don't just hold it like a dead weight dragging you down – Yes, tripping your opponent works, but you have to follow through! Wyclef, you're relying too much on that overswing! Watch for the leg blows, damn it!"

Nor is he clumsy, even if he can only make his sword connect with his opponent two times out of five – three, if he's willing to forgo all defensive blocks, but he's not so hungry for glory that he'll cover himself in stupidity in the process. A clumsy boy couldn't choose to dodge every hit from his opponent successfully and without bothering to block. Even with the weight of armor, he's fast on his feet. If his older brother has managed to train him in nothing else successfully as a fighter, Gawain has most definitely given him lightning-quick reactions and motivated endurance.

"Damn it, _fight me_ , Gaheris! That's what we're supposed to be doing," Wyclef pants.

The best way to win a fight against a stronger foe is to outlast them, forcing them to use energy on useless attacks while minimizing the damage and energy for oneself. Carry that logic to the end, and a dodging fight is perfectly acceptable when faced with an unbeatable foe. Gaheris is quite sure of that.

Pity that Sir Cleges doesn't agree. Wyclef hasn't managed to hit him in three minutes. Gaheris has even managed to get him to trip once, but couldn't get the blunt practice blade up in time to swipe at the hamstrings. Even a blunt sword would offer a serious bruise for that target. But since he couldn't make the swing connect, it doesn't count to Sir Cleges.

Wyclef herds him back against the quintain post, currently bare of its usual swinging target and weapon for repairs. Shame, that – Gaheris isn't too shabby when it comes to making use of his environment, and unlike Wyclef, he's short enough to duck the quintain's blows when he's off a horse. Still… he waits until the last possible moment, then rolls to the side. Wyclef's blade bites into the post instead.

"Halt!" Sir Cleges barks. "Gentlemen, this is intended to be _sparring_ practice, not mixed target practice and dodging practice. Nor is it intended to humiliate your opponent, Gaheris! Do you think yourself above participation, young man?"

What? "I've parried and blocked exactly like you said last lesson, sir. I don't understand what you want from me." He's only started exclusively dodging in the last three minutes.

Cleges' eyes narrow. "What I want, young man, is for you to pay attention and attack! I've called out at least six openings that you could have used during the course of the fight. I know you're learning to spot them. Now, you need to learn to take advantage of them. And if there aren't any openings, you make them. This isn't something you think about. We train so that your body remembers the patterns of how to attack and defend instinctively, precisely so you don't have to think about it. Thinking isn't the goal here. I know your reaction time is up to it; you need to stop thinking about it so much and just react – by attacking."

Damn it. He's going to have so much quarterstaff practice when this is over.

When the bell rings for the noon meal, Gaheris takes off into the upper castle. He's not so hungry he can't wait an hour or so, and he doesn't particularly want Wyclef to corner him and try and continue their conversation over why Gaheris won't fight back. He's pretty sure Wyclef isn't intending to be a bully, but the taller boy won't accept a non-answer. A yes, a no, or an explanation, but no answer at all results in Wyclef dogging the question until _some_ kind of answer comes clear. Unfortunately, Gaheris' answer of "I don't know," is apparently equivalent in value to a non-answer when it comes to the question, "Why won't you fight me properly?"

He's fighting as best he can. But he's yet to meet someone who'll comprehend that truth. They all think he's holding back, or has some mental hurdle he needs to get over about hurting other people, or that he holds himself above the need to practice with all of his effort. They also believe that, once he gets past the issue, he'll quickly catch up to the standards Gawain had set at the same age.

Gaheris has never been able to convince anyone otherwise.

Not even his parents, or Gawain.

He loves his family, but it is hard sometimes to be expected to live up to your brothers' talents. Especially when you haven't even the average success in fighting.

The only one who understands that Gaheris won't ever become the near-matching copy of Gawain they expect in arms training, as awful as it is to say, is Gareth. Gareth, who _does_ match Gawain's standards, is never more than three months behind their eldest brother in age in mastering any given skill in the knightly arts, and promptly decided Gaheris was stupid and not worth the time to instruct in weaponry the first time he beat Gaheris, when he was eight and Gaheris ten, in a swordfight.

Gaheris loves his family. Even Gareth, as difficult as that sometimes is. But he doesn't like his little brother very much, even now that they're living at a comfortable distance to each other. Logically, he understands that all siblings compete for the attention of their parents, and the parents' spare attention is limited by their other duties as adults. He understands the principles of sharing, that Gareth requires more oversight as the youngest and least mature, and Gawain needs personal attention as he trains to be their fathers' heir.

On good days, Gaheris even takes pride in the fact that he is the most self-sufficient of his siblings, able to pack his own luggage and care for his own horse without the aid of a groom.

On bad days, he admits he's lonely.

Gaheris knows that there are more skills of worth than just the fighting arts, even if they aren't the most prominently useful in wartime. He knows something of how to settle disputes before they become feuds, to listen to all sides of an argument, to ration supplies of seed and tally the bounty of the harvest, and to interpret the law for various crimes.

But he is a younger son of a lord of little land, and even when still a prince in his own right he could not expect much in the way of inheritance. There is no life for him, save as a knight, whether he serves his brother or their uncle King Arthur, and so his inability to do battle drags down his family with him. Gareth says so, and as loath as Gaheris is to admit it, Gareth is right.

It is, thankfully, the only thing Gareth is right about.

Gareth might have something of Gawain's skill at sword and lance and tactics, but that does _not_ make the youngest son of Orkney the authority on all weapons and their users, nor the authority on Gaheris. Gaheris may not be able to wield the sword himself, but his theoretical knowledge is memorized and tested against any situation or historical battlefield his tutors throw at him. On the occasion Sir Cleges asks them to analyze a match of their peers for openings and mistakes, he gets half-decent marks for any comments while it's ongoing and better for any post-bout analysis. It's not the knights' skills he'd prefer, but it's better than nothing. It means that Gareth's claim that he's useless and not worth training is not true.

Gareth's other claim – and this is the one that truly gets under his skin – is that Gaheris is a liar. He is not. He knows what he saw and felt – that strong arm sweeping him behind the archer, the bow and quiver previously obscured by the man's cloak now half-visible as he nocks the arrow, that shot that somehow twisted through the chaos of the battlefield to the horses and riders about to clash. He knows that shot should have been impossible to make, not for the claims of distance and aim that Gareth cites, but for the fact that nothing else was touched, no one else wounded, on the arrow's flight path. But the shot occurred, nonetheless.

His insistence on the truth has consequences. Generally, it favors him as a witness. But in the months since the incident, Gareth has used it to cast doubt on Gaheris' observations in other circumstances – his ability to accurately calculate a distance, or estimate a large number of forces without double-checking his math, are no longer trusted without verification. Not even Gawain trusts him to give an accurate report, now. It's why he left him behind at the castle. A silent statement that Squire Gaheris is unreliable as fighter, servant, or battlefield scout.

There's the castle gate. A walk in the city will clear this bleak mood, hopefully, before he has to return to training.

"Ah, Gaheris. Might I have a moment of your time?"

…Seriously? Just when he was about to escape court and its protocols for an hour? Gaheris groans internally, but his feet automatically turn to face the speaker, face clear of either dissatisfaction or any falsified pleasure at Queen Guinevere's attention. Waiting on her approach, counting her steps until it is time for him to bow.

"My lady Queen. How may I aid you?" Protocol is his guide with this stranger. She may be married to his uncle King Arthur, but Gaheris doesn't know the King, and he certainly doesn't know the new Queen. He's hardly met her aside from a handful of feasts, generally spending his days with the squires and his evenings with Gawain. He certainly doesn't know her well enough to call her Aunt and drop her title.

She pauses, then offers a curtsey in return. Not as low as his bow – one must be mindful of rank, of course – and the hesitation is something of a slight, but he's ready to overlook it since she began this conversation informally.

"Squire Gaheris, of the ruling house of Orkney. Will you walk with me for a moment?" Queen Guinevere's voice is warm with welcome, the gracious hostess even when she's about to escort him back to his class like a tardy scullery boy. "If your schedule is free, of course," she adds hurriedly. "I understand Sir Cleges and Sir Lucan have been keeping the pages and squires busy."

Gaheris could say that he needs to get to his meal, or back to his lesson, and escape her that way, but he'd be a liar the moment he walks out the castle gate. One does not refuse a queen when she requests your company, unless the king summons you at the same moment. His fists clench at his side in frustration momentarily before he forces them to relax. "I would be delighted to accompany you, Queen Guinevere," he says, and it's not a lie when the alternative is returning to class or lying to the Queen. He steps to her side and accompanies her down the hall, farther from the gate.

It takes a moment for the Queen to speak again. Guinevere is a careful woman from what little he's seen of her, aware of the power of her words, choosing and forming her sentences before uttering even one sound. Today is no exception to that, as she waits until they near the corner to ask, "How have you adjusted from living with your parents to living here with your older brother, may I ask?"

Family again? She likely means well, but Gaheris doesn't really want to think about this, let alone talk about it with someone else. His lips purse unhappily, but he answers, "Fine, my queen."

It's true. He's adjusted very well – no nightmares or homesickness like some of the pages, no spending his sleeping hours burning candles to write letters to beg his parents to let him come home, and no trouble listening to Gawain. Admittedly, he's grateful his brother isn't responsible for seeing he gets fed or putting him to bed – Gawain has a lot to keep him busy, and Gaheris is plenty old enough to see to those things for himself. Besides, if Gawain nagged him about meals or tried to tuck him in, it would be humiliating for both of them. As for discipline, it has yet to come up as an issue, and Gaheris intends to keep it that way.

Even if he wasn't adjusting well, he's hardly going to cry into the skirts of a woman he barely knows about it. She's likely asking for form's sake, in any case, so there's no point in giving more detail.

"I am glad to hear it," Queen Guinevere says, and he can see why King Arthur selected her as a bride, because she has the knack of saying things in a way that they come out true no matter what. It's a talent he wishes he had, because while he's always honest, Gaheris tends toward curtness and some people take that as insincerity.

"Is there anything that might make your life more comfortable here? Or more enjoyable?" She turns to face him, halting in the middle of the hallway. He's uncomfortably aware of how many servants or guards they'll block from using this passageway while they're here. "If it's in my power to help, I will."

Gaheris feels his shoulders jolt a little at her last words, still so sincere, despite his suspicion that anyone else would speak them as a mere afterthought. His first thought is an automatic refusal to that assumed afterthought, knowing in such a case that while the speaker might honor the obligation if he called for it, chances are they will not do so gracefully. But he chokes on the words, remembering how Mother offered him help with fitting his new cloak, that last day, after Gawain and Father and Gareth had left the room.

He refused, still smarting at the accusations of 'liar' and 'useless', too wrapped up in his own pain to focus on farewells.

Mother boxed his ears that day, and her words ring through Gaheris' ears just as loudly now – _'One does not growl at a queen like a wounded kennel hound.'_

But that is Mother, who just so happens to be a Queen as well. She feels it her duty to fuss over all her sons, and it's _she_ , not Gaheris and not his brothers, who chooses the matters that need fussing over.

_Help? When was the last time someone offered me that, when it wasn't his or her job to help me?_

His tutors help him regularly of course, if he stumbles on a difficult topic in his studies. That's what they're paid for. Sir Cleges and Sir Lucan try to help him with weapons practice, as they would any squire and page. Gawain and Father do the same, because they're responsible for his training and want him to be a capable warrior they don't need to worry about. But it's the same situation: other people are the ones who decide what he needs to learn, what he needs to be able to do, what he needs help with, and what form the help comes in.

_When was the last time they left the method of help, or the decision of what I might need help with, up to me?_

He stares at the queen, not sure how to respond, only half aware that he's been silent long enough for it to become potentially awkward, and soon to be understood as sullen and rude. Her brown eyes are still warm and welcoming, remaining patient despite the passage of time. _What could a queen possibly do to help me? Why would she_ want _to help me?_

"Admittedly," says Queen Guinevere after a long moment, "the war preparations mean that my help is currently limited by the city walls. But once the battle is done with, I'm sure we could send to your home for some things if they'd make you more comfortable – a book, or perhaps some clothes? I know your family keeps hounds – we can send for one, if you'd like that. Or, if you'd like to study a particular subject, I can speak to your tutors now and see what can be done."

Gaheris shakes his head, unable to process the offer. "That's very kind of you, my Lady." It is – those suggestions are well within her power, and her effort would mostly consist of ordering other people to make it happen, so it's almost certainly sincere. But sending for things from home, if he hasn't forgotten something he cannot replace here with less expense, will gain him an instant reputation as a spoiled brat hanging onto his queen's skirts. "But I'm sure the tutors have their own reasons for my current workload." More to the point, the tutors won't approve of him changing his current lesson plan when his knight-master is absent – they'd think he was taking advantage of Gawain's absence to do so. Without their recommendation to move on, or Gawain requesting a particular subject be focused on, Gaheris can't leave one lesson unfinished to study another. No matter how much he'd enjoy applying his mathematics lessons to siege engines or farming tools or monetary accounts, all of which are practical uses of an otherwise abstract subject.

"Maybe," says the queen, her tone wry with understanding of the delicate balance of inoffensiveness, "but sometimes people can use a reminder to reassess and potentially adjust their plans. Challenge your own expectations of yourself, and the expectations of others, and you will likely find some pleasant surprises along the way." She chuckles. "I certainly have, in the course of leaving my father's house to lead married life here in Camelot."

Gaheris looks straight ahead, fighting down a scowl. He's not going to manage it if he has to meet her eyes. "Sometimes, no one will take such a challenge seriously, my lady. No matter how hard you try." She has the protection of the names of both her father and her husband if she seeks to challenge expectations. He has that form of protection too, if he makes a challenge of honor. But that's no good if he doesn't have the fighting skills to back it up. And at this point, he knows better than to challenge his own expectations and hope for any change for the better there. Women are merely laughed at, and while humiliation is painful, it is survivable. Going up against a foe he is unprepared to face, and cannot fight even to a standstill or to exhaustion, would be deadly for Gaheris. He does not understand why Queen Guinevere is encouraging such risk. Has she not heard from his training masters? She should have inquired with them first, if she wanted to discuss such matters and not make a fool of herself.

The queen's lips twist. "Yes, I know a bit of that. It is generally hard for such men to take a woman seriously."

Does she think him a woman, to phrase her advice so? Gaheris is certain this would be more useful for one of her ladies than for himself, and the same is true for her offer of help. Restraining the scowl increases in difficulty.

"In truth, I have only met two people in my life, who take me seriously as a person regardless of my sex or heritage," Queen Guinevere says thoughtfully. "But they do exist."

She is luckier than Gaheris, then. Age and skill matter more in the world he must inhabit.

"And I am certain," she says firmly, "that someone exists who takes you seriously. You don't have to spend your life searching for them. Just… keep your eyes open for someone." She turns, ready to retrace their steps, and adds softly, "I hope I can be one of them."

Gaheris knows his place, and his place is to agree. But he also knows better than to make promises without two conditions applying: first, that he is capable of keeping the promise, and second, that the promise is something he is willing to do. So he replies, politely but without eager commitment, "If it please the Queen, who am I to gainsay her?" and tries not to let his eyes too obviously stray back to the escape of the gate.

Guinevere sighs. "I would not force you into my company when you so clearly prefer to be elsewhere. No, don't apologize – I may as well make one person happy today. Squire Gaheris, unless you hear the alarm bell ring to summon you to your post, consider yourself excused from your schedule until supper – please be back in time for it, and in the castle for the curfew, but go where you please until then. If you intend to go into the city, take at least your cloak and some sort of weapon just in case. I pray it bring you some peace."

Gaheris blinks at her for a moment, stunned, before his wits return and he offers a bow and a fervent, "Thank you, my queen!" He's dashing past her to his room to fetch his cloak, a dagger, and an apple in a moment, determined to get back to the gate and out of the castle before she changes her mind.

He probably ought to regret such a display of eagerness to leave her, but this is the first indisputably good thing that has happened all day, and he can't regret anything leading to that.

Bounding happily past the guards on his way out, he debates going by the stables, but decides that traveling on foot will ultimately clear his mind more. Besides, taking a horse would mean he would have no chance to leave said gelding, and so be unable to climb the city walls. He needs the peace that the view brings. Just as well that it's a clear afternoon; he can keep track of when he needs to leave to make his curfew so long as he's got a good view of the sun's position. As Gawain's squire, he always needs to keep track of that; his brother forgets to keep track when fighting, running the risk of exhausting himself abruptly once it passes noon and his strength is no longer instantly replenished.

It takes an easy hour for him to walk down the hill – a half-hour if the streets were clear, but that's never going to be true on market day. He makes a point not to cling to the walls – he had a bath yesterday, and he's no desire to get doused with a champerpot's contents and have to do it over. Passing the afternoon market, he takes in a cacophony of merchants crying their wares, smells of fresh and less-than-fresh food mixing. And something sharp and acrid that makes him wrinkle his nose – a leatherworker must be here, if he's smelling the stuff they use to treat skins.

"God give you good morrow, masters! Two o'clock, and all's well!" That's the town crier – one of them, anyway. Camelot has several to cover the city. "Curfew is still in effect; be home by dark!"

"Who'll buy apples! Early harvest, ripe red apples!"

"Bread, bread, loaves of bread!"

"Hot meat pies! Hot meat pies, still steaming! Only a ha'penny each!"

Gaheris grins. This is familiar, if much larger in scale. It was one of his favorite errands back home, if mother needed him to run to the market. He's always felt this is the heart of the people, not the law courts or the royal audiences. He makes a point to visit here every two or three days no matter what, keeping track of the prices, what goods are available, and the mood of the crowd. He's small, smart, and quick, and it's rare for a cutpurse to try him as a target unless they're even younger than he is. One of the few obvious advantages of his own lack of height that he thoroughly enjoys.

A few blocks beyond the market are the stairs to the guard posts, the towers built into the walls at regular intervals so the guards can have some shelter from the storms if they come, or protection for archers if someone's trying to scale the wall. The market is kept far enough away from the gates so as not to block traffic, but close enough to be convenient to any farmers or craftsmen who come to market from outside the city, as well as limiting the distance anyone can penetrate the city using the market as a pretext.

Now, Gaheris knows that he's not actually supposed to be going up to the top of the walls unless he's running a message to the guard. He's not a guard himself, after all, and he's not supposed to be distracting them. In peacetime, the walkway behind the ramparts is accessible to civilians, allowing them to cross the town without wasting two or more hours simply to navigate muddy and crowded streets. Due to the current concerns of attack, the guards prefer to limit access rather than risk anyone trying something.

So he's not surprised when the guard stops him.

"Oi, lad! You're not supposed to go up there. No one is but the guards and the castle staff!"

Barely one foot on the stairs, and Gaheris has already gotten called out for his presumption. It's William, the gate sentry.

Fortunately, Gaheris has a prepared excuse – a true one, too. He's been hoping to have a conversation with Sir Lucan, to see if the only possibility he's found for a potentially meaningful career in Camelot has any chance. It would take him away from Gawain's path somewhat, at least, even if he still had to become a knight in the process.

"I'm looking for Sir Lucan. Do you know where he is?"

William comes closer, squinting at the boy. "Gaheris, as I live and breathe! Aren't you supposed to be at your lessons now?"

"I got the afternoon off until dinner." Saying it aloud thrills him all over again. "I was hoping Sir Lucan might be here; I've wanted to speak to him for a few days now. Figured I'd come and find him at a time when I wouldn't have the audience of all the other squires."

William shakes his head in bemusement. "Do you have an official message for him?"

"No message, but—"

"Then you know I can't let you up there, lad. And who gave you the afternoon off, anyway?"

"The Queen herself," Gaheris says, surprised that _this_ is what's being questioned. "Please, William. I just need a couple minutes to talk to the guards, find out where Sir Lucan is."

"Not without an official message, Gaheris! You know this."

Gaheris' shoulders slump. He really shouldn't be doing this, but… "The Queen's words aren't official enough?"

William raises an eyebrow. "What does the Queen have to do with this?"

"She said I should go where I pleased, as long as I was back in time for supper and curfew. You have my word, I have permission." Assumed permission, anyway.

William stares at him, then guffaws with laughter. "I have a feeling you're stretching your permission a bit, Gaheris, but I know you're a good lad, so I'll let it slide just this once. You listen to the guards up there, you hear? Don't lean out over the wall, don't step into the notches to play, do what you need to and get back down here without lingering – twenty minutes is the longest it should take. Is that clear?"

"Clear as springwater at the source," Gaheris promises, checking the angle of the sun once more. "Thanks, William. Apple?" He pulls an extra one from his pocket, offering it.

William scoffs. "Do I look like a man to accept bribes? Be off with you. You'll lose me my place!"

Laughing, Gaheris takes the stairs two at a time, bounding up. The stone wall surrounding Camelot is as tall or taller than three men of Gawain's height standing on each other's shoulders, about two thirds as thick as it is high, and the towers might be three times as tall as the wall. He always feels better when he's up there, where he can see everyone and everything. Not quite as free as a wild hawk, but certainly as if he's temporarily granted the advantage of their eyesight to look for opportunity and danger. Even when he's back on the ground, time on the wall leaves him more certain of himself and his power to choose his own fate in the immediate future.

The guards challenge him again at the top, demanding to see his lead-stamped token of identity, to confirm him as a castle resident. They're less good humored than William, in their layers of quilted leather and mail and the cloak for bad weather on top, plus the helmet; given the heat, it can't be comfortable. Gaheris approves of the belligerence, honestly, even if it's not such good luck for him personally. If they were any less suspicious, he'd be worried about spies slipping past them.

Finally, they agree to go and check with one of their fellows for Sir Lucan's schedule; he is certainly on the wall at this hour, but which part of it, they do not know.

Two minutes alone until they come back. Even if that's all he gets, Gaheris will enjoy them. The cool breeze tickling his hairline under his hood, the spread of his hands gripping the stone of the battlements, the noise of the city behind him as merchants begin to pack up their wares and a steady trickle of farmers leaves the gates below his feet. It's not suppertime or near it, not yet, but close enough that people who aren't spending the night in the city need to prepare to leave.

He closes his eyes, just to enjoy it for a moment. To exist, to imagine himself as one of Father's hawks, gliding on the wind. Let the breeze do the work for a moment, as he glides even higher. Can birds climb to the clouds? Could he maybe see his body in Camelot, his birthplace in Orkney, and his brother in Guildford all at once, if he was that high?

Below him, the ground stretches out, the road and its surroundings clear of any trees or other cover a sneaking army might hide behind. It's not evening yet, even if the sun is sinking lower. The string of wagons, horses, and walkers have begun to exit, slowly but steadily, streaming out onto the road before him. To the imaginary hawk's vision, they look nothing so much like a stream of ants exiting their sandy mound on business for their tiny city, the illusion only more apt with every upward beat of the hawk's wings. Busy and important, to the traveling insects' grand scheme of the world, but easily crushed, even in the protection of their home, should a boot tread on it. Though a hawk's nest is just as vulnerable, if the eagle or serpent finds it – which is why his brother and their new king-uncle are away, and leaving the nest-citadel lonely, to draw the predators away…

Heh. He really must be maudlin, if his thoughts are shifting into such obvious animal metaphors. He knows perfectly well that this train of thought is doomed to end on a depressed note, as soon as he returns to reality, where he has no wings or beak or claws, and no skill at any recognized weapons to fight on his own behalf for his own choices. Usually, he has better sense than to let himself start down the path to this daydream. Maybe if he extends it, instead? Imagines his way to a birds' eye view of the south, to check on his brother? He could use good news, even if there are no facts to back up his imaginings.

The daydream is shattered when the breeze abruptly dies. His hair hangs flat against his forehead, sticky with the heat, clammy with the cooling temperature. Gaheris sighs aloud, unsurprised that his excellent streak of luck has finally broken. Ah, well. If it had to break, this was probably a good time for it. But why did it get so cold…?

He opens his eyes, then blinks.

"Huh? Did I fall asleep for a moment? No…"

Where did the light go? He checks the sky for a storm cloud, but sees nothing to explain the sudden decrease in light. It's too early to be starting on sunset yet.

He looks lower to the ground, then stares.

He's found a cloud, all right. A fog bank, thick and steady, climbing to meet the travelers and overtaking them swiftly. A fog bank that shouldn't exist. He's seen this kind of land-fog before, knows it behaves differently from what forms at sea. In Orkney, he wouldn't be surprised at it suddenly appearing like this. But land-fog is different. It _can_ form like this, close to the ground and quickly, but not during the day. It may linger for the whole day, once it forms during the night, if no winds or sufficient sunlight come to disperse it, but it can't _appear_ by daytime!

Yet appear it has, creeping up the castle walls, climbing them slowly but steadily. "Some weather expert I am," Gaheris mutters, moving closer to the tower. He doesn't want to get caught outside on top of the wall in something that thick; that's just asking to take a tumble and break his neck.

The guards should have been back by now, right?

A whistle, whirling through the air, comes from behind him. Gaheris turns, instinctively raising an arm to protect his head – he knows that particular whistle best from slingshot practice with shepherds on Orkney, the stone released to pass through the air.

Just in time, too.

"Ah!" A heavy weight rips at the material of his sleeve, before catching in the notch of the battlements, the attached rope pulling taut beneath it. More whistles, and the battlements next to it are likewise hooked.

That's not a slingshot. That's an iron weight larger than his fist, three pronged and shaped like a miniature anchor, with a rope attached to one end. But this isn't the sea, and the not-anchor has been thrown up, not down.

And the rope… is extending down the _outside_ of the wall.

Instinct saves him then, as the door opens at his back, and he whirls away from the tower and the spear coming at him. That isn't the guard, nor Sir Lucan. The man's wearing the right uniform, but it's oddly stained. Gaheris knows all the guards, and knows that there haven't been any new recruits for a month.

"Intruder!" he bellows, as best he can, the way Sir Cleges has trained him and the other squires to bellow across a battlefield and have their voices carry, and he doesn't have the energy to be embarrassed at the way his voice cracks on the shout. "We're under attack!" If he's wrong, and this is a bad prank or a misunderstanding, he'll live with the embarrassment. He'll even be glad of the humiliation for once. But he doesn't think that's going to happen. That's a bloodstain. Not animal blood on the butcher's clothes. Human blood.

The guards aren't coming. Should he try for the signal fire on top of the tower, to warn the castle, or the lookout on the hills outside, before the fog ruins it? But he'll never get past this man, not without another weapon. He's half the brute's age, scarcely more than half the thug's size. And more men are scaling the rope ladders attached to those not-anchors.

"That wasn't very smart, boy."

The spear whistles again. Gaheris dodges, overbalances, and finds himself slipping over the edge of the wall. He screams again, trying to warn someone in his last moments. He is a squire of Camelot, and he won't sell his life cheaply, not like this, not without warning of the danger.

He lands, unexpectedly, in the back of a cart, by the gatehouse, full of hay. No horse hitched to it.

Someone's under him. They're sticky, and bony, and ow, he's going to have bruises if he lives through this. "Sorry! Are you—"

He scrambles up, half aware his face is stained, and sees William, half his face ruined from a sharp blow, dead eyes turned toward the sky, body half-covered in hay where Gaheris hasn't disturbed the camouflage. Stripped naked of clothes and weapons.

The guards are dead. The merchants are dead. Their bodies and carts block the gate.

He has to get out of here. He has to warn the castle, before they open the gates all unsuspecting to their doom.

Gaheris runs. Stumbling out of the cart, feet over the cobblestones. No sign of any horses, not living. Dammit. He leaps over a patch of mud, barely dodging a pile of horse droppings on one side. Forget the smell; if he skids and falls now, he's never going to be able to get back up and away from the attackers in time.

Arrows whistle past him. He barely dodges to one side, trying frantically to break the line of sight. He can't scream and draw attention, and he doesn't have the breath for it anyway.

How did they even get into the city? How long have they been inside? Slitting the guards' throats is one thing, but stripping them and dressing in the corpses' clothes would take time, even if only a few minutes.

No time to think about it. Run, run, run. He has to get away. He has to…

The market is too open, and too empty. The crowd is gone. Where is everyone? Are they all killed? Where are the bodies? Don't look, no time, no time…

Behind him, he hears a scream, cut off within two seconds. Gaheris bites his lip, and keeps moving, knowing it's too late for him to do anything about it. If he wants to save anyone, including himself, he has to keep running. He never goes too high, never slows down. If he has to roll under a cart, so be it, but he won't crawl. Too much risk of getting trapped or losing momentum.

The pottery stall overturns with a crash, mere yards behind him. His legs are beginning to burn, but he can't stop now. They're too close. He pushes the apple baskets to the side, letting them spill over the road.

He needs a weapon. Not his own dagger, that won't be enough, but a spear could be useful. Hell, even just a shield to sling over him so he wasn't wasting so much time – _thwap!_ – dodging arrows! That one almost went through his foot.

He has to get back.

He's living up to everything Gareth has ever said about him – coward, useless, worthless for training…

It doesn't matter. He's not craven; he's smart. It doesn't matter that he doesn't want to die. He'll die if he has to, but he has to warn the castle. His life, his honor, they don't matter in that scale. His duty is to warn his lord, or the authority appointed in the king's absence. He's the only one who can do this.

"You can't hide forever, boy!"

_That's true. But if I can just hide long enough…_

There! The smiths' street. There's a fire smoking out the chimney from one shop, still. The door is closed most of the way, but Gaheris needs a damned weapon, and he'll leave his money pouch there and pay the rest back later. He has to hide long enough to catch his breath.

He ducks, rolls, and lands on his feet, running the last step around the corner, yanking open the door, and slamming it shut behind him, yanking the heavy bolt down. Hopefully he's bought enough time to actually choose a weapon.

His shirt is sticking to his back, soaked in sweat and probably other things he really doesn't want to think about right now. He's breathing harsh and fast, too loud to hear anything else in his own ears. He can't listen for outside noises to see if they're catching up. And the bolt is catching, and heavy; he can't force it the rest of the way down without making more noise than would be helpful.

The fact that he hasn't heard any screams aside from the one, along with the fact that the attackers are stealing uniforms, suggests a priority on the element of surprise, and therefore a need to eliminate any witnesses or suspicion for the time being. If he can hide long enough for the searchers to lose track of him, they'll likely avoid a more thorough search in the interests of secrecy.

At least, until they're done with the need for surprise…

"And where do you think you're going in such a hurry, young man?" a voice inquires from behind him.

Gaheris whirls, a hand going to his belt for a sword that he doesn't have. _I didn't lose them. They got here first._

He can barely make out the figure standing in the shadows of the forge. A tall man, not obviously armed, but with arms crossed and most of him a silhouette further obscured by flickering shadows of the embers of a banked fire. That's likely a trick of the light. And any of the smith's work, or tools, within the man's reach, would be suitable weapons in a pinch. This one's fond of subtle intimidation.

_I'm not craven. If they've run me to ground, I won't give them my back to wound. I'll die with my head held high, and making as much trouble for them as I can… but I refuse to accept that it's over yet._

"I won't let you stop me from warning the castle," Gaheris says, surprised at how steady his voice comes out. "I don't care if you've caught me, I won't stop running unless you kill me." He takes a bold step forward, towards his attacker and the embers. It will burn his hand, but if he can fling hot ash in the man's face, it will blind him a bit.

"Wait, what? Warn the castle?" The man sounds surprised, and concerned. "What's happened?"

"Don't you know?" His voice isn't one Gaheris recognizes from the calls of the men searching for him. But it could be a trap. He won't let down his guard.

"All I know is that you came charging into my shop like a pack of rabid dogs were on your heels." The man – the smith, possibly – turns to keep facing Gaheris as he moves, head tilting like he's trying to get a better view. "Are you injured? That's not only dirt you're covered in, and I can see a lot of stains on your front. I'd say you've had a bloody nose, but it starts higher on your face than that."

His face. Where he landed in the hay, face down, on top of – no, he'll be sick if he thinks about it. He can't be sick; he needs to keep thinking and keep moving. And he'll not give a potential foe an excuse to get close and give him more wounds. The ash attack won't work very well if the man's watching so closely that he closes his eyes in defense, so Gaheris dismisses that plan and backs toward the weapons shelf instead, never taking his eyes off the man. In the corner of his eye, he can see a sword hilt. That will have to do.

"If you're the smith, come into the light and prove it," he challenges. "Or I'll assume that you're one of the 'rabid dogs' I've tried to evade." He won't use the word 'outrun', because he is not prey to be hunted.

The man takes two more steps, slowly, stopping when Gaheris wraps a hand around the sword hilt. He's only half in the light, and the shadows obscure all of his face above his jaw, but he's wearing the smith's clothes at least. Not that clothes mean much tonight. "Yes, well, I'd like to know who the rabid dogs are, in this case. Did you get into a fight with a gang of your fellow street urchins? It would certainly explain all the mud."

Fellow street urchins? Gaheris gapes, a mix of indignation and astonishment momentarily overwhelming the desperation and fear that's kept him from collapsing. He's aware that he's filthy, but… "Do I _look_ like I've been running from _children_? I'm short, not a child. I'm _fourteen_!" Even twenty children bent on making his life hell couldn't push him to this state of desperation, let alone leave him with this many developing bruises. If it were kids, he'd have stayed right where he was and dealt with the problem then and there, not run to get help.

The man snorts. "And clearly not used to stressful situations. A tip, boy; never divulge information that you don't have to."

On a normal day, Gaheris would bristle at such blatant condescension. It is anything but a normal day. Assuming he _is_ dealing with the shopkeeper – more and more likely, given the man hasn't stopped him from going for a weapon or come any closer – he needs to explain why he's about to take a weapon without paying fully for it. "Fine, then. I don't have time for this anyway. I only came in to borrow a weapon so I could survive out there."

The smith's arms cross. "Oh? Then I hope you have the money for it, or you won't be leaving with one. I don't take kindly to thieves."

"I swear I'll pay it back later if this isn't enough." Gaheris fumbles at his belt, untying his money pouch and tossing it at the smith. "But I need it now. I have to get back and warn the castle."

One hand slips out lightning fast, catching the pouch, clearly near empty. The smith is unimpressed. "Do you take me for a half-wit? If I had a silver coin for every time I heard 'I'll pay for it later, let me have the goods now', boy… well. I wouldn't need to work anymore, at the very least. Now, how about you calm down, and let me see what you've done to your face. You're in no condition to be running with a sword that size in your hand. You're like to cut your own foot or nose off if you try."

"It's not my blood," Gaheris says. He should be moving, trying to get the blade up between them. But he can't make his trembling legs move. This man feels dangerous in a way Gaheris would expect of a grizzled soldier rather than a craftsman. Not dangerous to Gaheris personally, though, at least until he suggested taking the sword without full payment.

"Then whose blood is it? All over your face and hands, and some on your clothes…" The man's grey eyes stare at the sword. "Did you just kill someone?"

 _No, I was just unfortunate enough to land on the body._ Gaheris doesn't dare open his mouth and risk verbalizing that thought. Instead, he raises the sword, ignoring his faintly trembling arms.

The man sighs, turns and grabs something from the side table, ignoring Gaheris' shift into a blocking stance. He drops it into a bucket, liquid faintly sloshing, then pulls it out, dripping and limp, wringing out the excess liquid. "Clean yourself up, and let's discuss payment and who you are. I refuse to get a reputation for selling to already bloodied troublemakers when you leave here."

Gaheris scowls at the rag. He's wasted enough time here as it is without cleaning up and discussing payment. He has to get to the castle! But if he argues, will that waste even more time?

 _Splat._ His eyes are covered. The wet cloth blocks eyes, nose and mouth. He grabs it and pulls it off, swiping it roughly across his face as it goes, getting it as clean of the blood as he can. "I told you, I don't have time. Here, this is probably valuable enough to cover the remaining coin." He drops the rag, pulls the pin and brooch out of his cloak, letting the cloth drop to the floor, and tossing the fastener with its emblem to the smith. "I'll pay you tomorrow and reclaim my pin, if I'm alive to do it. Now can I go, or are you going to let everyone at the castle and in the city be slaughtered in their beds before I can raise the alarm?"

The smith blinks at him, his catch absent and half hearted. It's his only movement, otherwise oddly still. It's oddly familiar; Gaheris thinks of hunting trips with his father, where a suspicious animal would freeze in its tracks, hoping it hadn't already been spotted and wouldn't be if it didn't move. As if Gaheris is the predator. Hah. Like he could really pose a threat to this guy.

"Is the payment fair? Clap hands and a bargain?" If the smith isn't who he appears, this is when the man will go for him, when he comes in close. Gaheris leaves himself apparently open, offering one hand.

"Add in the story of what's going on out there, as much as you can get out quickly, and yes, I'll call it fair," the man says slowly. "I get the feeling this isn't the children's game or a tussle with boys too confident in their training, as I initially assumed."

Gaheris groans. "More delays?"

Outside, there's another scream. It's cut off too.

"Fine. We've got invaders over the walls, and they're smart enough to want it to be a surprise attack for the castle if the stolen uniforms from the dead guards mean anything. I was fortunate enough to witness it, and started running. They didn't like that." Gaheris speaks as fast as he can, inching toward the door. "I have to get to the castle and warn them so they can ring the alarm bell. Also, some kind of unnatural fog happened, along with a lack of sun well before sunset, and I'm pretty certain everyone on the walls is dead and that's why they haven't raised the alarm. And they've blocked the gates with dead merchants and dead horses and their wagons, slaughtered as they were going out."

"Ah. I suppose I'd better get my bow, then." The smith pulls the leather apron over his head, folding it and placing it on the workbench. "Thank you for the warning, lad."

 _He believes me, just like that, as soon as I've told him the full story_. Gaheris nods in grateful acknowledgement to the smith, now shrugging on a quilted black gambeson and a black hood over his head, pulling an unnoticed bow from its place on the wall to string it.

Gaheris takes a good grip on the sword. His other hand is on the bolt, ready to lift it.

The door shudders at his touch. Someone's pounding on it, from the other side.

Gaheris flinches, hand drawing back. "Can I get out by the rooftop?"

The smith doesn't respond for a moment, eyes narrowed on the door. Gaheris repeats the question.

"Not without a distraction. I guess I'll have to provide one," the man says slowly. "Are you any good at roof-jumping?" Stepping forward, he places one hand on the door, pushing the boy aside. Blocking the whole frame with his body for a moment as he mutters something under his breath, before stepping back and shoving a bench in front of the door.

Roof-jumping? Gaheris did that back in Orkney, on the occasional dare. But the buildings were much closer to the ground and to each other if he fell, and he hasn't tried it here since he first arrived. He says so.

The man snorts. "It'll have to do. Get back to the castle as fast as you can. I'll send a warning that should draw attention from both the enemy and allies in the meantime, and keep it away from you." He strides toward the back of the smithy, pulling one door aside in the storeroom. "Bring that dark cloak of yours with you. I've got a spare pin you can borrow."

Gaheris follows, nervously glancing back at the door. The pounding on it has increased. "They'll try to set fire to the roof if they can't get in, you know. Smoke us out."

The man laughs, truly amused. "Good. They'll have a fun time wasting their efforts, then. I've put a great deal of money into this smithy, and it's not going to burn down easily. I made sure of that when I repaired the place. There's a reason I don't have a thatched roof, unlike every other building in this town." Grabbing a long stave off the smithy walls, he shoos Gaheris through the entry of a storeroom, shutting and bolting the door behind to leave them in darkness. "Let your eyes adjust; I need two minutes to finish arming and getting the materials for my distraction together." A chest's lid impacts one of the walls, and then Gaheris can only hear leather and metal scraping against cloth, metal sliding against metal, chain mail clinking before cloth muffles it. String, sliding against wood and catching, wood bending, and string catching again.

Beyond the door, the pounding slows in regularity, but increases in volume. What the hell are the men outside doing, and how long will the door stand up to it? _Not long enough_.

"There," says the smith, his voice satisfied, as the chest's lock catches. "Now, let's get onto the roof, and give you a clear path home, lad. Remember – no matter what you hear or see, don't stop running. I'll make sure they have other things to keep their attention on."

"You're going to die almost certainly for the message I'm carrying, you know," Gaheris whispers, as they climb the ladder to the loft where the smith sleeps and its window with the hidden shutter. He doesn't want to doubt the smith, not when the man had believed him instantly as soon as he had the full story rather than bits and pieces. But he saw those odds, and the enemy has bowmen too.

"Maybe," the smith agrees, good-humored in a way that suggests agreement that the possibility exists, but the odds of it coming true are infinitesimal. "But I don't intend to do so. I intend to give these people a warm welcome for their trouble. Seems a suitable repayment for the welcome they've given the town, yes?" He chuckles darkly, then bends at the waist, pulling Gaheris up the rest of the way and kicking the ladder to the floor beneath them.

"Ready?"

"No," admits Gaheris. "But if I don't go now, I never will."

"That's the spirit. Be quiet, now; you don't want them to hear us." The shutter slides open, and the man climbs out, once more pulling Gaheris behind him. It's a familiar strength, that protective arm. Just like the archer who saved Father. Gaheris supposes it must be a requirement for all archers and blacksmiths to possess such strength, but even so, he takes comfort in the stranger's strength.

In the faint light left, he can barely make out the smith. One quiver of arrow on his back, another strapped to his right thigh, each containing at least twenty arrows and likely more. Over the black knee-length gambeson he's added a black hood, a leather skullcap and a long vest. A bastard sword at his left hip, fingerless gloves, and tall black boots complete the outfit. The black stave from the wall of the forge lies at their feet on the roof, somehow not rolling off the edge.

Beneath them and to one side, the men are still pounding at the forge doors. If they look up… they'll see him. How can they not?

The smith lifts one finger, points to it, gestures across the way, picks up an arrow in his other hand. Then he raises all five fingers, and lowers one.

_A countdown. Five…_

Gaheris takes one step higher on the roof. _Four._

 _Three._ Another step.

 _Two._ One more.

_One – Run._

His feet pound over the roof, his heart pounding in his throat the minute he takes that one weightless step –

He's flying – falling – not going to make it – going to die – going to –

He hisses, calluses tearing like soft wheat bread against the bite of the stone ledge. No time to cry – get up – hurry.

If he falls, it will be men that kill him, not impact with the ground. That gives him the strength to dig his fingertips into crumpling mortar, brace with his toes, and yank himself onto the ledge, arms burning with the effort of hauling his full weight around, not daring to cry lest he blind himself. The sword bumps his leg, and he prays it doesn't bang into the wall.

Someone shouts behind him, horrified.

Time to go. He's over the roof ridge and jumping onto the next, and it's easier somehow when he remembers that someone is fighting behind him, trying to give him time to escape because that message is worth the potential sacrifice. He's got no sense of time with the stars missing and the sun gone, but he can see the distance still.

There's a burst of light behind him, high in the air, making the shadows flee for one glorious moment, followed by a bellow of rage. Gaheris winces at the sound. Part of him wants to slow down and look at whatever it is, so he can see what's coming for him –

" _Remember – no matter what you hear or see, don't stop running. I'll make sure they have other things to keep their attention on."_

It's the only thing the smith asked of him, besides getting his message to the castle.

Gaheris keeps his eyes to the path in front of him, and runs.

* * *

The attack comes from an inland river venture, as predicted, but with far less warning than anyone had expected.

One of Merlin's avian spies catches the raiders sailing up the River Arun, past sentries who kept staring anxiously out to sea and never saw the longships slipping past. Then, somehow, the rowers got the longships to the River Wey, despite the distance overland and no water to bring the boats through, and no explanation for how they could get the boats so far so fast when the only way to move them was to carry them. Yet somehow the raiders must have done it, for even now, their crews were sailing them downstream from Tilford.

A bare seven miles from Tilford, the River Wey flows eastwards and northward through Godalming. Past that, the river flows eventually to Surrey and into the River Thames. From the Thames onward, it is easy to guess at the raiders' plan of travel.

"Londinium," says Kay flatly. "Only this time, they're coming at it from the side no one knows to watch, because they'll all be watching the sea. Even with only five of the smaller ships, that's… around two hundred men. Every one of them armed to the teeth, and riding as much a reputation of terror as their own skill."

"We don't have time to debate this, Kay," Arturia snaps, double-checking the buckles of her armor, shaking herself to see if anything sticks in place or falls loose. "Even the slower longships have an average speed of five knots. We'd less than an hour for them to get here when we got the warning. Now, we've only ten minutes at most. The curve and bend of the river is the only thing slowing them down enough for us to even ready ourselves like this; Merlin's warning is the only reason we even know to do so. Merlin, can you block the river faster? Ector's taken his men to watch the hill pass."

The magus is hopping from foot to foot, back and forth across the river ford, as well as a length of some distance on either bank. Flowers build beneath his feet with every step. He shoots Arturia an annoyed look, but never ceases the pacing. "I assure you, I'm walking as fast as I can, my dear king. But the flowers' growth isn't something I can control very much when I'm overlaying steps like this. It's tricky to ensure they all have firm roots in the ground and not in each other, not to mention the two-foot thorns you requested, and keeping it all tied to the underwater trellis of spiked logs you've given me to work with." His head tilts. "Of course, if you'd prefer me to go faster, I can. The longships will only need a nice strong push to tear through the flower-root barrier, in that case. Or perhaps you'd prefer I push so much mana into this that it grows solid as petrified wood? I wouldn't have thought you enjoyed floods as entertainment."

"What do floods have to do with it?" Kay asks.

The magus shoots a look at the sky in answer. Weather has not been cooperative; less than an hour past, a fierce rain was turning the ground muddy and slippery, and limited their ability to see beyond the closest bend in the river.

"The narrow valley that creates an advantage for bottleneck tactics and shield walls moving from uphill to downhill doesn't serve to herd men alone," Arturia says, quietly. "It will also herd water, if the water doesn't have a place to go."

"But the riverbed… oh."

"Yes, the riverbed, which Merlin is partially blocking at my orders." It was a tricky thing to create a barrier like this, potentially raising the water levels without flooding when you had no other track to divert the water into. Merlin had accordingly begun by raising the banks on either side of the river into firm hedges, which her army was meant to brace with earthen dykes, intending to create a dam. Arturia had stopped him before he flooded her intended battlefield, and told him to actually listen to the army engineers when they explained how to anchor the plan of joined spikes without blocking the river entirely, driving them deeply into the riverbed so they wouldn't drift but still keeping them close enough to the surface that they would pierce a longship's shallow draft.

"We can't simply dam the stream, by design or by accident, or our men will have nowhere to stand on land. The water has to keep flowing, and the barrier must be invisible, or they'll just reverse oars and go back the way they came, and we'll never catch up. We can't just sink one of our own ships intentionally, because we don't have anything larger than a two-man fishing cog. So, spikes it is, driven into the riverbed, and the flowers and roots to anchor it, with some thorns as additional spikes. A barrier made invisible under the water's surface, but ready to pierce any longship hull that comes near it."

Originally, the engineers had not wanted to use Merlin's magic at all, more confident in their own efforts. But they had run out of time to construct as planned. Now, she just had to hope that the makeshift barrier was enough of an encumbrance to block the longships from continuing further. If they could sink one or two ships, even better; the scuttled vessels would be not only be useless in their own right, but in their graves they would halt other vessels from continuing to sail further.

The crews would have to get out and fight, killing every last man in her army, before they could keep sailing. If they decided on a fighting retreat and making a run for the hill pass on foot instead of defending the boats… Sir Ector would be waiting.

"You've sent word to Londinium?" she asks, tightening her swordbelt.

"If the worst happens, Pellinore will have heard of it. My best riders took the message." No matter what, Pellinore will know the new danger to prepare to defend against.

"Then godspeed to you, brother, and be ready with your portion of the shield wall."

Excalibar and Avalon are at her side, and the dagger Carnwennan is securely sheathed at her spine. Her hair is braided out of her eyes; her helmet is on her head. Her men are in place, save for Merlin, who still paces the ford. Llamrei stands patiently waiting for her master, along with the other horses.

Arturia stands and moves to face her men, waiting with their shields.

"Today, we face a vile foe indeed," she begins, slowly, trying not to let her voice carry on the water. "For weeks, we have lost villages, farms, fields of crops, and all the people who worked and lived there. Now, the men responsible are sailing towards us to do it again. If we do not stop them now, the country will slowly starve. If we do not stop them here, Londinium will swiftly fall." She smiles bitterly. "I say I am going to stand in their way, and end this today. We must save our war cries if we are to preserve our foes' shock, so, those who will fight with me, raise your blades."

A mass of spears and swords and pikes, even seven bows off to one side, lift to the sky in a silent answer.

Merlin pauses, tilting his head, then leaps onto the riverbank and strides toward her. "They're about to round the bend." Behind him, the flowers submerge themselves.

Arturia nods. "Archers, to your arrows. They've made a great rain of blood. Let us repay them with a rain of fire in their sails. And let the war-cry be the thunder to follow it."

As the first wooden prow turns into sight, seven arrowheads dip into the pot of oil, then into the flaming torches. The archers nock their bows, draw the arrows back so far Arturia wonders how the bows are not set alight as well when the arrow shaft is beginning to burn, and let them fly.

Two arrows overshoot, ending on the far shore. One lands in the river just past the stern, the archer having underestimated the speed of the first boat. One hits the bow of the second boat. One manages to land in an oarlock on the first target, and is quickly snuffed out by the crew. The last two hit the sail, high above where an oarsman can deal with it easily. Cries of alarm carry to the hilltop.

The steersman and most of the rowers stay at their places. But others pull their oars in and arm themselves to defend the rowers, or yank at the sail ropes, shouting to the boats behind them about the attackers. Or so Arturia assumes; she's not the best speaker of Saxon dialects, even when she's standing close enough to make out the individual words.

Another archer manages to start a fire on the second ship, but the last three boats are working full speed, furling sails, coiling ropes, and trying to lower the masts into the deck. The archers are sending arrows at the crews as well, trying to pick them off before the men have a chance to grab their shields. The rest of her army jeers, howling at the Saxons.

"You had a lot of fun fighting people who couldn't fight back, or who didn't have a chance to fight back, didn't you? How about you come and cut your teeth on a real warrior? Come on, or are you too scared to fight without the protection of your ships, eh? That's right, run away in fear!"

"Come on, you sons of bitches, fight me! Or should I go find your mother and give her a _real_ son to be proud of? I bet she'd enjoy it!"

"Too craven to raise a spear and face me, eh? Will you give me a better fight if I piss on your father's grave first?"

Insults are a standard battlefield tactic, as much as Arturia might feel personally that they're a waste of breath. The insulter raises his own confidence, and the insulted is angered and more likely to do something stupid.

Right now, it's just one more distraction, one more thing to keep the men from looking further along the river to see where they're going.

The last boat has rounded the bend, trying to row backwards just enough to avoid a collision. The third boat has slipped to one side, trying to get around the ones in front of it.

Perfect.

"Merlin, I believe it's time. Let's give them another problem."

The magus sighs, readying his staff. "Remind me why I agreed to this, my student. Wouldn't it be quicker just to punch them? Or use my sword?"

"We _are_ punching them. Punching holes in the bottom of their ships."

Merlin chuckles. "Fine. I suppose it will be a fun prank, to pour water into their boots. But I am never letting you talk me into using my poor flowers like this again. _From the edge of paradise, you shall hear my words! Awaken, my Garden!_ "

The water bubbles, boils, churns with the thrashing under the surface.

There is a hiss of water, and the ship begins to falter, slowing down, one end abruptly lower in the water, and dipping further with every lap of the river. One, two, three vessels are all compromised. The final two boats are shouting at the men in front of them, trying to find out what is going on.

Behind her, the army cheers.

One man snarls, shouts back at the two boats still intact. The oars reverse course, trying to back water until they can turn around without colliding. Someone recommended a partial retreat, then.

"Merlin, would you?"

"My king works me so very hard. I shall need at least two weeks of nothing but rest, food, drink and the comfort of sympathetic women after this," Merlin laments, opening his palm in front of him. "It is a good thing I can make dreams reality. Behold, King Arthur, they are fishes, and I am a fisherman, catching them in my net. For now, they can swim along easily if they stay in its boundaries, but when I pull the net tight…" He clenches one fist.

Behind the boats, another set of spikes raise themselves from the water. Three foot thorns are always intimidating.

Steersmen bark commands swiftly, and one side of the rowers back paddles, while the other side rows forward, sharply turning to land on the shore, away from the spikes. They've decided to fight.

They pour onto the shore, oars stowed, ships dragged up the beach. Save for ten men left as ship-guards, they all come racing up the hill, roaring, striking their shields with their swords and spears. The three sinking ships are fighting a losing battle with the river, but will join their comrades soon or drown. She must face thirty, sixty men for now, perhaps, but soon? Soon, there will be a hundred and more.

"Shield wall!"

In the front rank, men drop to crouch at the bottom, shields overlapping at the edges. Behind them, another group, raising their shields to lock over the front row's faces. A third row, to protect the heads of all, and a fourth row of the tallest men with shields facing the sky, ready for arrows and spears. Behind the barricade of men, the rest of the army readies their own spears, to hurl them over their comrades' heads.

This is a good tactic for flat fields, but it is also advantageous when one has the high ground and the enemy does not. The river valley's sides make for a steep climb, and their enemies will exhaust themselves in part coming to them.

It is not a fair fight, but Arturia cannot think of her ideals of fairness now. She is a king, and to protect her people and their happiness and safety, she will be ruthless.

One crew, having gotten its sinking boat to the opposite shore, has dragged it up and set a small portion of men to repairs, while the others wade back over the river to join their comrades.

"Your brother wants to know if he should move, or hold back," Merlin says.

"Keep his forces hidden for the moment," Arturia says, mindful of Merlin's warning that his familiars cannot pass on messages beyond a nonverbal 'yes' or 'no'. "If another boat lands there and starts fleeing, he can deal with them. For now, I'd prefer they not come near our baggage carts."

She raises her voice. "Spears!"

A row of spears whistle over the shield-wall, meeting the enemy's first charge. One man takes it in the throat, another in the leg. Each is trampled swiftly in their own comrades' rush forward.

Sword against sword, shield against shield. They crash and push and struggle at each other. Occasionally, the wall breaks for a bare moment, allowing someone to target more directly, engaging with spear or sword before closing the break in the shields lest an enemy take the opportunity.

Rushing like this, without forming a wall of their own… they'll die like this, easily, if they don't learn fast. Saxons learn quickly, so Arturia intends to deal as much slaughter as she can with this.

The crews below are coming out of their boats, angry but careful. They're taking the time to form their own shield-wall, and march up with it, roaring battle cries and insults of their own.

"We do not need magic to hold what is ours! Once your spell-singer is dead, you will be lost!"

"You call yourselves men, to follow a boy without even stubble as a king?"

"Mighty fine spear you've got there, Briton! My son will enjoy playing with it, until he's old enough for a real weapon!"

"Do you bed your wife as limply as you thrust with _this_ spear? No wonder she came looking for someone who could actually give her what she wanted!"

There's the last of the stragglers, save for the boat guards, joining the Saxon shield wall. Motioning to her lead archer, Arturia tells him, "If you have a chance to take out the guards, do so. Don't make the lot of them retreat beyond the river if possible; save that until the end of the battle. But if a straggler comes to join the fight…"

"Fear not. If the opportunity to remove one comes, it will be done, my King." He bows gravely, and offers her a javelin. She accepts, and moves to take her place among the soldiers.

After that, it is all one long clash, slamming shields against shields, slipping in the mud, the screams of the dying and the silence of the dead. The blood and the mud and the corpse-making. The pleading of muscles that grip a weapon so tightly they cannot let go of it. The stink of sweat and piss and vomit as warriors foul themselves in fear or in death. The smoke of the fire where it creeps up from the river. The sound of wood splintering as a shield finally falls to pieces, and the scream of the man behind it when an enemy takes advantage of the new vulnerability. It is nothing Arturia has not experienced before, but it will never be something she enjoys or can fully get used to.

Because she is the King, she cannot take her turn in the shield wall like any other man, not when she has no heir and it is the area of battle where a warrior is most likely to die. She cannot add Prydwen to the mass of shields. She cannot stand and fight and die with her men.

Instead, she mounts Llamrei, and when the enemy pushes the wall near to breaking, she charges out on her horse, making herself a target and a more available foe all in one. They try to knock her off her horse, to kill the mare under her, to get a spear inside her helmet or armpit where the armor joints leave a necessary vulnerability for movement. She dodges them all, taking the blows on Prydwen when she can, jabbing Excalibur out to decapitate or remove a hand or thrust to the heart or gut, buying the men behind her time to repair the wall of shields keeping them all safe.

One Saxon sidesteps her, trying to tug the blade out of her hand. It's an unwise move so close to the shieldwall; the man next to her slips his own shield sideways just enough to bash an axe into the bridge of the would-be thief's nose. The Saxon screams, blindly thrusting forward with his spear, and Llamrei screams as he slices at her flank and her tail. Another man thrusts his sword into the opening, separating the hand on her blade from its wrist before continuing the movement to sever the head at the neck. Blood splatters on them all as her ally draws back and pulls his shield closed. Arturia thanks him, but cannot be certain she is heard over the fury of the battle screams.

She urges her steed out of the way when another man shouts for the wall to take a step back, leaving their dead mixed with the enemies for the living foes to trip over. The dead will be treated with proper respect when this is over, but until the battle is ended, to reclaim a corpse is not worth risking anyone's lives on.

How long has the battle been going on? She was halfway through breakfast when they got the warning of the ships, and her stomach's complaints suggest it might be closer to lunchtime at this point. She ignores it, of course; the only battle that takes time for meals is a siege.

She could probably end this battle on her own, if she used Excalibur as the fairy weapon it was forged to be. Every moment she does not draw it allows more men to die.

Merlin reminds her endlessly that humans around her are not as sturdy or enduring as she is – she knows perfectly well that drawing it would harm her troops as well. What if she had never called the army, save for scouts, and set out to defeat Vortigern herself? She could have used its power without fear of harming her allies, for she would have none around her.

But Lucan's plea in Camelot rings in her ears every time she thinks to lay hands on the blade as anything but an ordinary sword.

" _When he's killed, I beg of you,_ _ **make sure you recover the body.**_ _"_

She cannot use Excalibur at anything less than its full power. Perhaps in the future, when she has known and trained with the blade for longer, but at the moment, it is impossible. Thus, she needs an army, and she needs to fight as closely to the level of an ordinary warrior as possible. She does not want to risk her men; she cannot risk her people's fields; and she will not risk Vortigern getting away, not when the possibility pushes a man like Lucan so near to panic. So she must limit the damage to a small area and achieve a speedy and thorough victory, and afterwards, she needs to see if Vortigern is among the bodies, and seek him out if he is not. She will not leave this threat to linger over her country.

The possibility that Vortigern is here shrinks with every hour of the battle, as no leader save the steersmen speaks to rally the men. The hour grows later, the rain clouds part, and the sun, which was at her back when the battle began, is soon nearly overhead. If this lasts much longer, it will be in her eyes, and the eyes of her men, and the Saxons will take advantage of it.

The Saxons begin to draw back down the hill, leaving a third of their number behind as cooling corpses or walking dead men. Those who have fatal wounds but are still capable of making trouble stand their ground together, holding the line for the retreat to the boats to prepare the ships – or perhaps to prepare another stand, across the river, so they hold the high ground instead, and the sun at their backs soon?

"Not so fast," Arturia breathes, reaching for her belt. Two strong blasts from the horn is all the signal she needs. Across the river, Kay leads the remaining knights out of the trees and down the hill in a charge on horseback, sword over his head. Sir Gawain is at his side, eager to prove himself, spurring his dark bay stallion towards the foe with sword at the ready for a low pass; the dark horse and the silver knight move as one being, trying not to outpace Kay in their eagerness.

The ship guards leap to their feet, grabbing the weapons at their side to defend the ships from further destruction. On the hillside, the fleeing fighters slow in horror, seeing their escape route cut off. Arturia lifts her sword in triumph, and gently kicks Llamrei's sides, leading her warriors down the hill to complete the pincer.

Merlin is ahead of her, beyond the remnants of the Briton's shield wall, broken as her knights and levies pursue their prey, laughing as he duels the fighters one-on-one. "Come on, no need to be shy! I won't even use magic if you give me a good fight!" His sword is bloody with the work he's put it to, but the rest of him is pristine, despite the mud and blood and sweat that stains everyone else who fights today.

"Monster!" someone shouts at him.

"Leave him be! You know the White King's orders. Vortigern wants Merlin for his own vengeance!" shouts one steersman. "Shield wall! If we are to die, let our swords be bloody in our hands!"

Kay's forces are upon the guards before they can retreat to the relative safety of the river. It is no contest, when the men will not stand their ground. The mounted knights are as terrifying as the mythological centaurs, swift and deadly with hooves and swords alike. Too few to form a shield wall, the boat guards stand no chance. Indeed, their comrades on the eastern riverbank are now forming a shield wall where they stand rather than fording the river to give some aid. Clearly, they judge their survival chances better against the infantry than the knights. And the guards know it.

One guard is desperately trying to launch the boat, clearly intending for his comrades to retreat there in hopes that the horses cannot follow into the water.

Gawain doesn't give him the chance, urging his steed closer. The bay hardly needs the direction, snorting happily as it gives chase, idly launching its back hooves out to kick at a foe – the man gasps fruitlessly for air as his ribs and lungs cave in from the force of it.

One swift frontal kick, and the escapee is knocked over the side of the boat, into the shallows, where he sits spluttering. The well-trained steed places one hoof on his chest to keep him there, leans closer, and – Arturia blinks. "Am I seeing things, or has my nephew actually trained his horse to pull an enemy's helmet off with his teeth?" she asks Merlin.

"That's not training," Merlin says, leaning on his sword in interest.

A scream of agony echoes over the battlefield – not from pain, or dying, but sheer terror. "My ear! My ear! He's eating my ear!"

The dark bay tips its head back, mouth bloody, something between its teeth – its very sharp teeth.

Arturia stares, forgetting the sword in her hand, the battlefield around her, convinced for a moment that she has stepped into Hercules' eighth labor and encountered the Mares of Diomedes – for those are the teeth of a carnivore, and the stallion is clearly anticipating his second bite. The Saxon no longer fears drowning, one hand clamped to his head, staring in horror at the creature above him. She'll never get there in time to bind its mouth. It will eat her nephew, and her brother…

"No!" Gawain snaps abruptly, swatting his mount on the neck. "Bad Guingolet! Don't swallow that! Spit it out!"

The slap spurs Arturia back to wakefulness, raising her blade to meet an enemy and parry it. This is a battle. She hasn't got time to stare like that, not even out of the corner of her eye.

The steed, which has teeth sharper than any horse, turns its head to look at Gawain, certainly not in obedience. Its ears are laid back flat against its head, lips peeled back, the meat stuck between its teeth, as it blows air through its nostrils. It's ready to bite again.

"Spit it out, Guingolet," Gawain says firmly.

The man across from Arturia stares in horror at the sight. Arturia doesn't waste the opening, bashing her sword over his head and cutting his throat to make certain after he falls. She can vaguely hear her nephew's scolding as she counts down the men left to deal with.

"…packed more than enough red meat for you to gorge yourself on, cooked as rare as possible while still keeping it from rotting… bought you a fresh raw cut yesterday in the village… rare and even a little bloody still… "

Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen men left. She'd wondered why Gawain hadn't brought food for his mount with the other men, but evidently he'd just stored it in a different part of the wagon train. A meat-eating horse, however, brings to mind some interesting stories besides Diomedes' mares.

"…certainly not hungry enough to excuse this backsliding behavior. Don't think I'll excuse bad habits in your diet… Spit it out."

Arturia reminds herself to speak to her nephew after the battle is done – ten men to go, now – about when the appropriate time to reprimand his horse is. Unless it is trying to buck him off, he cannot stop for a verbal scolding _in the middle of the battlefield when men are still trying to kill him_.

"Drop it. Now. Or I will feed you only jerky for the rest of the week!" He's actually holding out one hand for it, free of any weapon, to take the bit of bloody flesh, fending off a rescue of his hostage with his other hand and a sword.

Slowly, very slowly, the stallion's lip curls down – and then he _spits_ the ear into Gawain's gauntlet, precisely as instructed.

"Good job!" Gawain says brightly, tossing the bloody flesh onto the bank. "Thank you, Guingolet!" Reaching for his belt pouch, he offers a drink of water, not noticing that the entire battlefield has stopped to stare at them as the last Saxons are cut down, save one, who Merlin is holding at bay.

"What," Kay says flatly, "is that?"

Gawain looks up. "Hm? Oh, I'm just washing the blood away so he doesn't keep tasting it, Sir Kay. Don't worry, he won't break the man's ribs or let him get up until I say so. Guingolet's got excellent balance. And I'm perfectly capable of defending anyone who attacks us one-handed, if they try."

"That's nice, Sir Gawain," Kay says, very slowly, "but what _is_ your mount, exactly? Don't tell me it's a horse. No horse has teeth that sharp."

"Fae horses do," Gawain says helpfully. "Guingolet is an aughisky."

The men on the field instantly back away, some very carefully and slowly, some as fast as possible in panic, others just following their comrades and watching the horse uneasily to see what could provoke this response. The trapped guard looks as though he would very much like to do the same, but the front hoof still pins him in the water. At least he'll have ample disguise for his shame if he feels the need to piss himself in terror.

"An aughisky. You mean, one of the Orkney-dwelling, water-dwelling, man-eating ones?" Arturia says quietly. "As I remember hearing, the breed's idea of a fun time is to give someone a ride on land, not let them get off as they ride into the water, and then eat the rider." She stares at her nephew.

"That's true of the wild ones," Gawain agrees. "But I tamed Guingolet myself. I have to personally handle him, of course, but he's very well behaved. Hasn't once snapped at a stable boy. Even eats hay on occasion, in moderate amounts, though he prefers seaweed if he has to eat plants. As long as I keep him supplied in animal meat, he's very well behaved. And he has never once tried to bite me. Try to buck me off, yes, especially at the beginning, but never to bite." He pats the stallion's head cheerfully. "You're the fastest horse in all of Orkney, aren't you? Such a well-behaved steed!"

"Get it away from me! I don't want to be eaten!" the Saxon screams. Beside Arturia, Merlin is half bent over his sword, shaking with laughter. The men around her stare at them in shock.

Merlin's erstwhile opponent, the final living steersman, swallows, and throws down his arms. "I yield, and submit myself to be hostage for ransom, to whomever the commander is. Just – please let my brother up and away from that beast?"

"Guingolet is not a beast, and he isn't going to eat you!" Gawain protests.

"Sir Gawain, that's enough," Arturia says firmly. "Do you agree to this? Both of you?"

The trapped guard nods frantically. Death in honorable combat is welcomed; death without a weapon in hand, eaten by a monster, is not.

"Then I, King Arthur, accept your surrender as hostages, unless any of you be Vortigern. Collect their weapons, please. Remove your helmets. Gawain, let your captive up."

"Yes, my King. Back, Guingolet." The stallion blows its nose in disgust, but steps back, letting the guard scramble up to join his brother. It blows again in his face when he stands, and snickers when that makes him run. Gawain just sighs, and continues to quietly bribe his mount with butcher's meat, while the other men begin to clean up the battlefield.

Neither of the faces of the two survivors are familiar, and Merlin declares them free of disguise magic. So, they begin to line up the corpses, while Arturia orders the prisoners into Sir Ector's care, to be taken to Winchester and guarded.

It takes a while to confirm that none of the dead whose heads remain attached to their bodies are Vortigern, and longer still to confirm that they have enough heads to match the headless bodies and none of those are Vortigern either. Questioning the hostages offers no information, only that Vortigern was at the head of another force, and they were to meet him in Londinium.

"This is wasting our time," Merlin says in disgust. "You don't know where he is, and neither do they. I'm going to get something useful done." He stomps away.

"And where will you be?" Arturia calls after him.

"I'm tired of Vortigern making us foolish dogs chasing our own tails! I'm going to find him with magic! We've got two Pendragons by blood here, and another one in Camelot – that's enough for me to find the fourth point of a square when I know he's on the island!" With that, Merlin tromps off to work.

Arturia sighs, giving orders to the locals and the knights alike to bury the dead. Except for Gawain – for the sake of everyone's peace of mind, she orders him to keep well away from the bodies, along with his mount, and to explain in detail just how he came to acquire the steed.

It's an interesting experience. Gawain tries to be always calm and stoic and polite and respectful and ready for anything, close to the perfect knight she dreams of becoming. But when he speaks about his horse, he… _gushes_. There really isn't a better word for it.

If this were any other topic, she'd tell Gwen about it in a letter, and know it would make her best friend laugh. As it is, while Gawain's behavior remains somewhat amusing, the consequences he is apparently ignoring are less than funny. Some of the risk-taking is to be expected – Arturia knows that her own behavior tends toward impulsivity in the moment, and part of that is because she ceased to age physically when she drew Caliburn from its stone, and then again once she acquired Excalibur and Avalon after a few hours without any sword. Possession of the fairy artifact halts any further development of her female body, but according to both Kay and Sir Ector it also prevents her thoughts and attitudes from growing and changing as fluidly as before.

People between ten and twenty take risks, push limits and break boundaries. They come to adulthood's privileges and responsibilities, and explore those privileges beyond what common sense prescribes. Sometimes, it gets them killed, or nearly killed. But if it doesn't, then eventually they no longer believe that there is a risk. Until they learn otherwise and gain an adult's rationale, should they survive to that point.

Gawain is not as bad as some she has known. He believes that his horse is not a lethal risk to others so long as he is there to control it, but does not discount the fact that he has trained that lethality to be used on his command. He ignores the stallion's very real interest in eating human flesh as a potential problem so long as he can provide it with substitutes of meat. And he genuinely does not comprehend why everyone is terrified of Guingalet after the battlefield's revelations, not when he has offered reassurances of the horse's behavior.

To Arturia's mind, Gawain's luck has skewed the issue to a point that he acknowledges the possibility of danger but disbelieves that it will ever occur.

Kay's focus on the horse rather than its rider suggests he's noticed a different problem; she'll have to talk to him. Later. For now, her brother is riding up to meet them, a grim mood cloaking his thoughts. He halts a short distance from her, warily eying the aughisky beside Llamrei before returning his attention to her and bowing in the saddle, shoving up his visor.

"We checked the bodies. All two hundred and three corpses are accounted for on their side. None of them are Vortigern."

Arturia sighs, but nods, expecting the news already. This was merely confirmation that they haven't missed anyone. "What about our own casualties?"

"Out of our fifty of the local levy, thirty-nine lie slain. Out of the other levies, ninety-six corpses have been identified with certainty; another thirty are almost certainly our side's, but all beyond recognition. Of the five hundred total of the levies, local and from elsewhere, there are three hundred and thirty-three living; at least twenty are too badly wounded to fight ever again, and another fifty or so who will need to recover for some weeks. That leaves just over two hundred and sixty still fit for fighting. Of the eleven who live here, half will be useless to work for a month, but they would be staying here anyway." His lips twist. "Your archers and knights survived comparatively better. One archer dead, and one living who will not be drawing a bow again this year, and the five others are merely low on arrows. Three knights of the twenty dead, all of them on your side, and one on mine with a severe blow to the head who is having trouble walking at the moment. Head wounds are tricky, so he could be fine, or we might see problems in the next couple of weeks. I am probably going to need a secretary; my wrist is badly bruised, and lifting quill or sword is going to be very troublesome for a week. Sir Ector and his forces, of course, saw no battle, so they are fine."

Arturia nods, scanning the valley again. "Thank you, Sir Kay." Military formality is necessary here, as much as she would like to pull off her brother's gauntlet and reassure herself that he is alright. Trying to distract herself, she scans the valley. "Has Merlin come back yet? I'd like to move on before night falls, even if we still have a good amount of light left for travelling."

Kay snorts. "He's gone? Good riddance to bad rubbish." Arturia frowns at him, and he rolls his eyes in return. "Yes, yes, I know. He's useful when you need a magic weapon, sometimes. And it's certainly better to have his aid, dubious though it might be, than have him as an outright enemy. Doesn't mean I like the cost of that aid. No, I haven't spotted him. Why? When did he run off?"

"Just after we managed to get the planned meeting in Londinium out of the Saxon survivors," Arturia says, worriedly. "Have you sent the second message to Pellinore?"

"That you've survived, the battle is won, and we've no sign of Vortigern?" Kay sighs. "Yes, I sent the first two bits hours ago. I wanted to wait until we had confirmed Vortigern's absence before I sent that last part."

Gawain tilts his head, looking beyond them. "Ah, my King? Forgive me for interrupting, but I see a rider crossing down the hill from Sir Ector's posting."

Arturia followed his gaze, frowning. Yes, there is a rider, coming swiftly down the hill, pointed in their direction. The horse… the horse is in terrible shape. It's been ridden hard for hours, she can tell even from this distance. Mount and rider are sweaty and filthy, sides heaving, and foaming on the mouth. If Ector let them by in such a state…

"Let's go meet him," she says, "and whatever bad news he carries." No good news kills a horse to carry a message. She urges Llamrei forward, Kay and Gawain at either side.

Up close, the messenger and his mount are wearied near to death, but still, they push on. Skidding to a halt, the rider practically collapsing in his saddle while his mount is ready to collapse beneath him, he breathes, "My lord… King… news from Londinium…" He proffers a scroll in a shaking hand.

Kay frowns. "A reply already? We sent the messenger less than twelve hours ago. He can't have arrived yet."

The messenger stares at Kay as though he is speaking gibberish, then shakes his head and slides off his horse. Stumbling forward, he pushes the scroll at Arturia's fingers, and she has to grab it before he drops it.

"My king… the commander of Londinium defenses… Pellinore… is dead. Killed. We had not yet found the culprit when I left. And there is worse news… read the scroll."

Yanking a small knife free from her belt, Arturia cuts the seal – the Londinium ring, and an unfamiliar sigil, likely belonging to whoever wrote the report. Her eyes scan the words once, twice. It's been hurriedly written, as a report intended for Pellinore himself. An added postscript explains that the commander has been found dead, and the defenses will be mustered while the news is sent off. She's crushing the parchment in her fist long before she reads the end.

"A host managed to slip past Londinium. Undetected. They've found traces of the ships they used to do it," she manages to say after a moment.

Kay stares. "What? How is that even… wait." He rounds on the exhausted messenger, who is too tired to even flinch. "When, exactly, did someone find Pellinore's body? How long had he been dead? Did they use the chaos to slip through when the alarm was raised?"

The messenger shakes his head. "That's written by Sir Agravain, Pellinore's second in command. Some of his scouts found signs of where the ships had been anchored, in an outlying area. He found the body when he went to report their findings. Some hours cold."

Arturia would very much like to know how, exactly, Pellinore could go several hours undiscovered when he was commander and supposed to be talking to all those many knights under his command to coordinate the defenses. Even when he was sleeping, it wouldn't have been for long, or shouldn't have. Before she can ask, someone else is abruptly there, in the empty space between them. The horses whicker nervously, the riders curse in startlement. Arturia just takes a deep breath to prepare herself, certain that the day is about to get worse.

"Merlin?"

The magus doesn't acknowledge her. His entire attention is trained on Gawain. "Have you confirmed that your family arrived back in Orkney and did not leave it again?"

Gawain looks at her and Kay in confusion for a moment, as if wondering if _they_ have family there, rather than him. "I – yes. What's going on?"

Merlin ignores the question, and turns to her. "We have a problem, King Arthur. The two points of the square that aren't here – they're both in Camelot. Along with a presence I haven't felt since I was a boy. A white dragon."

"Camelot's magical defenses are not responding to me," Merlin continues, "nor do they respond to attempts to awaken them from dormancy, so I can only assume they no longer exist. And my attempts to relocate myself there have been blocked. Very rudely."

"Gaheris," Gawain says, face pale.

Gaheris. Camelot. Archer. Guinevere.

Vortigern.

Oh, god.

"He turned our strategy into a trap for us, with five boats of bait, and made havoc where we weren't," Arturia says quietly, then snaps, "Soldiers! Parcel out food from the baggage carts to each man. We're eating as we march, and anything they can't carry is left behind. Including the baggage train."

She's going to get them all back to Camelot. If Merlin can't teleport them, they'll go the shortest possible way and march all night.

"My king?" the messenger ventures.

"Rest. Your charge is ended, mine begun. If Vortigern wants to play games with a dragon, it's high time he found out the consequences of losing to one," says King Arthur Pendragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wreckers: When a ship founders close to shore, locals may take valuables from it – only valuables, because if you save people, you might find the loot's owner. Rewards for saving people appear as a legal concept for the first time in 1870. A traditional legend is of wreckers deliberately decoying ships to run aground using tricks (in particular false lights). Devon and Cornwall both have rocky coasts and strong prevailing onshore winds, an ideal combination for wrecks.
> 
> Knucklebones: ancient name for the game of jacks. Originally the bones were those of a sheep; modern jacks are made of metal or plastic.
> 
> Nine Forts: Romans built a series of forts in both Gaul and England to defend what is known as the saxon shore, nine of which are in the Notitia Dignitatum. All forts are referred to by their historical names. Clausentum is Southhampton, Portus Adurni is Portsmouth.
> 
> Beacon Fires: Light travels faster than any human messenger. While it can't convey complicated messages, a series of fires on high points, lit quickly, can act as a simple message over a vast distance. Historically, England used a chain of beacon fires on hilltops as recently as the Spanish Armada to warn of a possible naval invasion. Fictional examples can be seen in Mulan and Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Locations: all the sites Cleges suggests have been targets of actual historical naval attack on England at some point, and are valued for the reasons mentioned. Camelot's location has been borrowed from Berkhamsted Castle, in Hertfordshire. The real castle is deliberately something that did not exist when Arturia was around. However, the location remains plausible, both because people historically tend to reuse the natural geography if it works for fortifications, and Berkhamsted has evidence of people living there since Neolithic times onward. Also, it lies along Akeman Street, a trackway that joins the two ancient trackways of Fosse Way and Watling Street. Perfect for an army to march along and reach in a relatively short time – namely, under two days from when they left their ships if they march fast enough. An invading army will need spells to hide themselves, of course, but this also means a relatively quick way for the defending army to come after them, once they've reached the road.
> 
> Camelot's wall: Based as accurately as I could find on the most impressive defensive walls surrounding medieval cities and towns of such a size, the wall is approximately 18 feet high and 12 feet thick, using modern measurements. Towers are built into the walls at regular intervals, about 50 feet tall. A gatehouse is placed beside every gate in the wall to help defend the city.
> 
> Bastard sword: also known as the hand-and-a-half sword, a longsword type named for its extended grip, allowing it to be wielded with one or two hands. Terminology dates to the nineteenth century, but we've already mentioned that Camelot was made to include and update anachronisms…
> 
> Longships: The ships in this chapter are all based on the Viking snekkja. It holds at least 20 rowing benches, with a crew of 40 rowers and 1 cox, approximately. They are also incredibly light, which makes it feasible to carry them once the mast is lowered and secured. Like all longships, they have a shallow draft, enabling passage through the river.
> 
> Knots: 1 knot is 1 nautical mile per hour, about 1.15078 mph. Godalming is about 7 miles upriver from Tilford, and Guildford a bit further along. This gives Arturia less than an hour's notice that they've arrived.
> 
> Underwater barrier: Arturia is following the same tactics as the Continental Army's Hudson River Chain from the American Revolution in blocking the river. She has opted for an underwater chevaux de frise rather than a boom chain due to (1) a lack of time to make and install an iron chain rather than wooden logs, given she didn't know where the barrier would have to be, and (2) putting a hole below the waterline will force the invaders to a land battle.


	11. X: Storm Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A queen gets some news and must make a decision. A king arrives in London, but still has a long ride in the dark before arriving home, and the enemy is ahead.
> 
> Archer has a promise to keep, and a city and castle to defend. Even if his kings' citizens tend to find him inherently distrustful, that's not going to stand in his way. It might get him accused of murder along the way.
> 
> The clash of Vortigern and the nameless bowman… who will win this bout?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all!
> 
> So, Deer and I went a teensy bit overboard again – the one time being an overachiever means anything truly positive, in my experience – and it looks like we have to make the siege another two- (or more) part piece. We've got a decent bit of the second half already done, but it could be weeks to months before we finish and edit it due to IRL troublesomeness - school for Deer and a whole bunch of medical/financial/family stuff for me (oh, my!).
> 
> Also, on a more personal note here: both Deer and I genuinely appreciate every comment, kudos, and read. We love the new ideas and perspectives you guys bring, and we're always really happy to hear how much you enjoy this thing that honestly started as a half-hearted joke on my part.
> 
> However, I would like to ask every reviewer one simple thing when writing out that much-appreciated review – either take that few extra seconds to add the word "both" when using "you" or omit the you entirely. It honestly feels like a lot of you guys forget that there are two names attached to this story, and that really, really sucks. I know not everyone does this, and I know that may paint me as petty to some people, but is a one-word difference either way truly too much to ask?
> 
> Enjoy,
> 
> Universe Creator
> 
> Warnings for depictions of gore and excessive violence and a smidgen of archaic, religious preaching (welcome to wartime in the Dark Ages).
> 
> Credit to ORBIS: Stanford Geospatial Model, for helping figure out some of the distances and travel time.
> 
> This chapter will make references to the four highways of Roman and Medieval Britain from this point on: Ermine Street, Fosse Way, Watling Street, and Icknield Way. Also on connecting streets such as Akeman Street, and other ancient trackways such as the Ridgeway.
> 
> Camelot Castle is still sited on modern Berkhampstead, but we are using a concentric castle floor plan for the interior modeled on Goodrich Castle.

Nobody expects a noble girl to predict a storm coming.

A farmer's daughter, or a fisherman's wife – that's different. If your crops might be destroyed by drought or hail or wind or lightning, you learn to tell when a storm is on the way, and when you'll need to haul buckets of water to the fields. If you're waiting on shore with nothing to do but darn torn nets and wait for your husband to come home, worrying over what's keeping him, you learn to keep an eye on the sky and the seas and an ear for the breeze, to tell you when to prepare for supper and when to worry for his absence.

But a noble girl? What need has she to learn life's lessons or the landscape's warnings, when her shelter is guaranteed?

Guinevere sighs, staring out the window at the sudden darkness. Soon, there will doubtless be thunder and hail – that's the usual sort of weather to expect with a midafternoon storm in late summer here. She can't see even a trace of light outside.

How far do the clouds extend? To where Arturia lies? Not likely, but where there is one storm, there may be others. Guinevere smiles, imagining the frustration: Arturia cleaning wet armor, trying to deal with rust before it can form, even as more rain spatters down and undoes her work.

The smile fades.

The public farewell to the King, the knights, and the soldiers should be a bittersweet memory. After all, it marks the first time the king looked genuinely pleased to see her in weeks, and did not flinch from her gaze or touch.

But instead, it is an entirely bitter memory, one that exhausts her all over again when she recalls it. Because of _course_ Arturia wouldn't let her subjects know that anything was wrong with her picture-perfect marriage. Of _course_ she could smile if there was an audience and an immediate escape route available.

The longer this fight goes on, the more Guinevere loses her appetite and her will to move around. Fighting with Arturia leaves her exhausted, with headaches if she cries, and dizzy with pent-up tears.

If they were both considered men by society, or were both men in actuality, they might solve this in the sparring yard, taking out their frustrations on each other with blows, and drinking afterward to reconcile. But women wage war differently, with words and with tears and with silent patience most of all. Confrontation with blows is not a method permitted to her.

Guinevere is grateful that Arturia's vows of knighthood, as spoken by the King and each knight she dubs, include promises to 'respect the honor of women' and to 'defend the weak and defenseless'. She only wishes that those vows also included a way for a woman to strike her own blows physically if needed.

But chivalry does not include a codified way for people to settle a grievance, man to woman; only man to man.

Fighting with Arturia leaves Guinevere as bitter and exhausted as an ancient hag, but it doesn't make her worry about her husband-king any less, or the knights, or the troops that went with them. For in the end, worry is all she can do. Worry and wait. There is no way for her to help them now but prayer.

There is a shuffle of feet outside, raised voices. She ignores it, eyes straining into the darkness beyond the window, trying to make out the details of the storm. It suits her mood more than weaving; she has no desire to imitate Penelope of Ithaca today.

The door opens behind her. "My Queen." Cloth and leather shivers against the floor. She turns, unsurprised to find one of the guardsmen kneeling a respectful distance from her feet, his spear left at the door, head bowed to shadow his expression.

While she's made an effort to learn the names of her people, this one escapes her currently. So she can only half-smile, as graciously as possible, and respond, "Yes? Is there news?"

Cleges would only send someone if there was news. The storm unnerved them all, but the spymaster was fussing the worst, worried about the weather's hindrance. Particularly when he explained to her that Gaheris had missed afternoon practice; he'd been somewhat relieved to discover the boy had permission to skip, if the grumbles about extra staff practice were any sign, but concerned that he hadn't come back at first sight of the storm.

The messenger bows his head. "My Queen, Sir Cleges sent me to tell you that we've seen a small… light-burst, for lack of a better word, over the city. Not a fire; it came and then it vanished. Sir Cleges plans to send a rider to the city wall, and see if it came from outside, but we are mostly certain that it appeared within the walls." He swallows. "It… may have been an enemy signal, though Sir Cleges is uncertain and does not wish to start a panic. However, he suggests you prepare yourself for trouble, my Queen."

'Prepare herself for trouble' is Cleges' barely disguised urging that she be ready to escape the city if the worst should come. That's… ominous, even if she grants that he has pleaded for her to consider such plans since after the King left.

Has there been a signal from the city wall? Cleges did not send any earlier message that a battle was being joined, or that a force of men approached the city. She actually expected the messenger to have come with news of Gaheris. Cleges apparently had another lesson planned for her nephew, and was heartily annoyed that she had enabled the squire to avoid it, if not to the point that he would waste sending a guard to seek out the boy and drag him back to the castle.

"What of my nephew?" she inquires, ignoring Cleges' plea for now. No sense in spreading rumors that anyone was considering an escape route. That would suggest that the trouble was sure to crush them, or that she had no faith in her people's ability to protect themselves and her. More immediately, Gaheris should have started back before the storm, or certainly at least when he saw the storm was coming. "Has he returned?"

But the guard shakes his head. "I have no word on that, my Queen. The search within the castle was interrupted when we spotted the light-burst. If he has not responded to the ruckus of armed assembly, I doubt he is here…"

Guinivere raises a hand, and the guard's voice trails off. In the silence, a babble of muffled voices rises beyond the door.

"Let me in! I have to see her!"

"Gaheris," Guinevere breathes. "Let my nephew in!"

The door bangs open. "My Queen!" Gaheris gasps, dodging past the startled guard, the pair from the door following him inside still trying to hold him back.

"Gaheris, thank goodness," Guinevere says, bending to set aside her needle and thread and the pieces of cloth for Arturia's shirts. "I was rather worried when the clouds came that you wouldn't make it back before the storm broke—"

Straightening, she takes in her nephew's pale face, patchy with darkening shadows that prelude bruises; his hands, scraped beneath stains of mud and something else; his belt, holding a sword he most definitely wouldn't have taken for a simple walk, particularly since it's too big for him; and his knees, clothes and hair stained and sticky with red-brown smears. Some of the smears are still drying.

"Someone get the physician, please," she says, trying to keep her voice calm while conveying the urgency of the situation. Cleges' messenger is already moving toward the door. Guinevere pushes her own chair forward.

"It's not my blood," Gaheris says, swaying on his feet, ignoring the chair.

She stares at him. That sounds even more ominous than her assumption that Gaheris had been provoked or trapped into a fight he wasn't ready for.

The sword is sheathed still, the belt adjusted so it does not drag the scabbard on the ground or interfere with Gaheris' movement overmuch; there is no way to tell if blood stains the blade. The stains on Gaheris' clothing have smeared too badly to easily suggest a spatter or a dipping pattern.

She may not know much of how to use a sword or spear, but she does know laundry and its stains, and what causes them. That much blood, even smeared, is more blood than a man could lose and survive. Gaheris is likely carrying only a portion of the ruddy spill in the stains; the rest will be around the now-corpse.

' _It's not_ my _blood_?' _Then whose is it? How did it get on you?_

Did she leave Gaheris unsafe enough in Camelot that he had to use lethal force to defend himself? She should have sent a guard with him. It would be appropriate, for the son of an honored former hostage and present kin by blood and marriage. If she had sent a guard, he would not have needed a sword like this, a sword he could not use to best advantage until fully grown.

_I must ask Gaheris for the truth of it, before I terrify myself further._

Before she can match action to thought, Gaheris is speaking again. Quickly, words tumbling over themselves like water in river rapids, getting them out as swiftly as possible as if to make more space for the next words coming behind his tongue.

"The city walls have fallen. The invaders have killed the guards, and taken their uniforms to dress themselves in. The blood is that of the gate sentry, William. I fell on his body when someone pushed me off the wall – he was already dead. I couldn't sound the alarm, couldn't get back up the stairs to it, and no one had heard my scream. Or if they did, they never got there to respond. I've been trying to get back here—" His head snaps up, terror in his eyes, and he grabs at her hands, his skin tacky like the inside of a glue-shop. "Tell me you haven't let anyone in from the wall!"

Guinevere stares at him, then snaps her head to the guards. "Tell Cleges what has happened. Start ringing the alarm bell. We need to get as many into the castle from the city as possible, without letting in our enemies."

One guard nods, and breaks into a run. The other hesitates, glancing at Gaheris. "Is there… anything else Sir Cleges should know?"

Gaheris nods. "I think they wanted the element of surprise. That's… not a storm out there. Not a normal one, at least. Fog and clouds, but they came out of nowhere, and the weather isn't right… And then they were there, less than a minute after it was dark and the wind was gone."

He swallows, clutching tighter at Guinevere's hands. She can feel the pulse in his white-knuckled fingers. "I don't think most of the city knows; I couldn't get to the alarm, and no one else rang it. I managed to barricade myself in a smithy at one point; I took a weapon and warned the smith there – he fought to cover my escape. They'd been chasing me since the wall, they'd almost caught up with me… He got their attention…" He swallows hard. "He's probably dead now, isn't he?"

For a moment, Guinevere cannot speak around the lump in her throat, nor see her nephew beyond the image he's brought to her mind. A large, tanned hand clenched around a hammer, at the end of a broken lump of bone chunks and muscle that was once an arm. A torso riddled with arrows. Grey eyes still open against the sky, mouth curled in a snarl of defiance. The same sort of thing she's been dreaming for days, but green eyes and blond locks against smoking forests and hillsides are replaced with skin darker than any sunburn might explain stretched out on muddy, bloody cobblestones.

She shakes it off, and manages a weak smile for Gaheris. "Let's not lose hope yet, shall we?" Even if he's right about his ally's fate, that doesn't mean the smith he met was Farran. There are other smiths out there in the world, and at least one must be as gruff and kind to animals, as ready to defend others. She will not assume the man dead yet.

"So, he distracted them, and you got away?" she asks, forcing herself to keep moving. "You've warned us, Gaheris. You've done your duty. Thank you. Now, I need you to keep doing your duty, and tell me the rest of it." She glares at the guard. "Take your message to Cleges, now, if you please. And send a page for the physician; I want my nephew looked over." She waits until he's out of the room before she turns back to the boy in front of her. "Will you sit down if I do?"

Gaheris stares at her, uncomprehending. No, not at her, but rather past her, Guinevere realizes.

"He told me not to stop running, no matter what I saw or heard," the youth half-whispers. "That he'd make sure they had other things to keep their attention on. He certainly kept his word… if I could see the straw on the roofs ahead of me in that flash, anyone looking directly at the light, whatever it was, probably went blind for a moment."

Guinevere frowns. "Light?"

Gaheris shakes his head absently, his speech stumbling worse than a kitten before its eyes open. "It… it was like… a lightning strike, without any thunder to follow it – a bright light that chased the shadows behind me… for a moment… just a moment…"

* * *

 _Thwack_.

The neck is pierced at the pulmonary artery. Another enemy is dead, hitting his knees with one last gasp of gurgled blood.

The roof falls from beneath the killer's feet, replaced by cobblestones.

 _Squelch_.

Archer wipes the arrow on his long-ruined pants, replaces it in his quiver. Fresh blood could make it slip against the bowstring. Dried blood could add enough weight to alter a shot's trajectory, turning a fatal shot into a crippling one at best.

_"It's the smallest things that matter most, Sherou." That smile, equal parts tenderness, amusement, and exasperation—an "I love you" and a scolding in one—played across Luvia's lips._

What would she think if she knew he applied that sentiment to hell more than to their relationship? No, perhaps she'd always known—even if he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment those words stopped meaning forgiveness and started meaning resentment.

He hops back to the roof, to another—no time to daydream. There are always more prey.

And here he'd thought he escaped Cleaning duty.

Ah, there's the church tower up ahead. Perfect. He hops closer, carefully balancing on the ridge of the roof in a half-crouch as he inches closer to the tower, a sniper's tactics to avoid notice. Tactics he hasn't needed since he died and gained the ability to astralize his body. He'll have to climb as close to the tower as he can, but once he's gotten to the high vantage point, he'll have plenty of targets to search for.

No one walks abroad at night, save thieves and cutthroats and the city watch. Perhaps a doctor or a midwife, for babes never choose to come at convenient times, but those will come with guards and torches of their own if they can afford them. Theoretically, this should be easy.

Too bad these invaders had the good sense to steal the guards' uniforms after killing them quietly, so picking out targets is…challenging. Especially since his secondary goal is, if at all possible, not to get himself noticed or destroy anything else.

Not that he's ever really wanted to destroy anything. He's a protector at heart, not a berserker or assassin or any sort of killer. Ironically, the deadliest tool in his arsenal exists because he wanted to avoid hurting people. Most mages would have developed their Reality Marbles to become deadlier, but Emiya Shirou just wanted to sleep side by side through the night with his girlfriend without impaling her on iron spikes.

" _Well, I'm glad to hear you have no objections to impaling me with your… other sword, hm? As long as we're both awake and consenting, Shero…"_ Luvia's memory-voice snickers, mispronouncing his name as usual. She always was a closet pervert.

Still, this isn't the time to lose himself in the half-remembered past of his lifetime. Particularly not when this cloud cover makes predicting shadows difficult.

Crouched in the shadow of the bell tower, Archer lets his eyes sweep the area - one last search for targets before he starts the climb. Below, a troop of four guards walk along, lantern held high, approaching the doors. Archer looks them over, then scowls. He can't spot any weapons other than the ones meant for the City Watch to use, no obvious Saxon hairstyles, no convenient blood stains or ill-fitting uniforms to give a clue. Blast. He'll have to follow them and wait for them to do something suspicious, if he wants to be sure.

_After this, I am memorizing the entire guard roster, faces and names. It will be worth it to avoid dealing with this uncertainty in the future. And then I'll memorize the known guest list for every important event, and every member of the household. It will be worth it if I can stop any future infiltrations before they start._

Behind him, the bells toll. Vespers, perhaps? He's still learning the 'canonical hours', which aren't entirely the same as during his own era. And it's not as if he was a practicing Christian at any point, despite working with the Church when occasion called.

One of the guards pauses, turning to look at the bell tower with a frown.

Archer stills. His breath is as slow and shallow he can make it. He presses back into the stone. He is a shadow.

The guard glances higher, towards the deep chimes and the bells swinging.

The leader pauses, looking back at the slow mover. He coughs to gain attention. The first guard makes a motion toward the church. The leader nods. Archer strains his eyes on their lips, trying to make out the words.

They've turned to the church, marching confidently up the steps, weapons at hand but not about to be used.

Archer's eyes narrow. In a world lacking swift communication, light and sound are the best ways to communicate a swift emergency message, in the form of beacon fires or alarm bells. The guards might be coming to ask the priest to ring the alarm. But if that was the case, why debate it? Alternatively, invaders might be going to disable the bells and ensure no alarm could be rung, and raid the church for its treasures.

No time to waste. Stalking closer to the front of the church, he peers down at them.

Any clue, any clue at all…

One man lifts a gloved fist, and pounds on the church door. The layers of oak and iron echo with it. Perched above like a gargoyle, Archer grits his teeth at the vibrations. Inside, the whole church must reverberate with it. The bell ringer will be coming to answer, or perhaps the priest.

Archer is out of time. This may have to be knife-work if it comes down to it. Securing his bow against his back, he lets his feet over the roof to drop between inch-long protrusions of stone, as quickly and noiselessly as possible, eyes straining for a sign.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming! Why is everyone so hasty these days…" A middle-aged man's muffled voice echoes from the church.

The lead guard nods to his second, who bends toward his boot, tugging it straight.

If Archer's eyes weren't already pinned on the man, he'd likely miss the hilt of a boot knife slipping inside the guard's sleeve as he comes back upright.

The bolt is moving, the latch pulled free.

No more time.

Archer pushes out from the wall and drops, landing on one man's shoulders so the force of his weight bears the surprised 'guard' to the ground. His bow is in hand, one arrow going through a man's throat, the second through his comrade's eye. A swift knife thrusts through the spine of the man he's standing over and all the way to the front of the throat before he yanks it free.

One man left. But the door's half opened, the priest's eyes wide and mouth opening to scream, not seeing the glint of the blade in the guard's hands or that the point and edge is turned towards _him_ , not the black-clad archer —

Yanking on his opponent's shoulder, Archer swings himself between the last infiltrator and the priest.

His right hand slaps over the priest's mouth; if the man lets off a scream, they'll draw every fighter from _both sides_ within hearing distance to come near them, and Archer's arrows are a clear proof of culpability when he still has half a quiver left.

His left hand grasps a slender, short blade—a _miséricorde_ , designed to slip between chinks in armor, or gaps in the helmet, to give the mercy stroke.

He's worked on the guards' armor for weeks, knows that the throat is protected by a chain mail gorget. The helmet protects the skull and the nose. But the eyes are vulnerable… and behind the eyes, there is the brain.

The guard's knife is already extended, blade above the fist in a 'saber grip'. A good move for a sneak stabbing, but not for a closely grappled fight or for a powerful thrust. It's a simple matter, with his own blade pointed downward, to parry, hook the blade arm away, even to stab or slash at the eyes.

One final squelch, and his hands are bloody and his sleeve ripped. The dying man was trying to block the knife, but got his sleeve with a too-slow reaction. Archer scowls at the corpse and the Saxon seax lying loose in its grip.

Behind him, there's a sigh both ragged and terrified, almost a cough. "Who...?"

He straightens up slowly, lest his rescuee think he's next, and sends his best imitation of King Arthur's prized blank mask over his shoulder. The priest is clutching the doorframe, knees clamoring together beneath his dark robes.

Any facial reaction could act as an emotional trigger, and time to explain in detail is a luxury he doesn't have. "Sorry, but I'm afraid we have some wolves in disguise among the sheep who'd rather keep their presence quiet. Raise the alarm. Don't trust any guardsmen that voluntarily approach you, got it?"

"Wolves indeed," the priest murmurs, and he glances up and down Archer in a way that makes it clear how much he dislikes what he sees: a tall outsider with skin dark enough for Carthage or Greece, clothing dark like an assassin's but clearly stained, well-armed and with blood still on gloved hands — especially in contrast to the clean uniform of the corpse in guard's clothing. "And a confident one, too, to announce yourself so boldly, and to accuse another of such status to excuse yourself from murder."

Archer had only meant to refer to Aesop's fable of the wolf wearing sheep's clothing. Now he abruptly remembers that, in the current form of English, 'wolf' is synonymous with 'outlaw', literally someone who is outside the law's protection and as such has his life forfeit to any man who wishes to claim it. To kill an outlaw is not murder. Right now, that sounds like a poor attempt at an excuse.

"Do you really think you'll get away with murder of a _guard_ that easily? Spilling the blood of the innocent on the steps of the church? What a case of hubris, to request that I raise the alarm to justify your crime. I'll not give you an alibi against his comrades' revenge when they come to arrest you. I will speak to what I saw." The man's tone is confident, angered and sad. "And if I do not live to speak it, God sees all."

So much for getting out of here quickly. Unless Archer can offer proof that he is who he says, and that his victim was no guard, he's not going to escape persecution for this after the fight — and the priest certainly will not allow the bell to be rung in alarm.

Archer quells the twitch of a frown of his lips, but not fast enough; the priest's flinch in response is well-disguised but goes through his whole body.

Moving as slowly as he can, careful to maintain eye contact so the priest doesn't run for it, Archer crouches by the corpse and pulls the fingers away from the seax. Straightening, he offers the blade to the man, hilt-first. "Does this look like an ordinary guard's weapon to you, Father?"

The priest doesn't even glance at the knife. "You want to query over your opponent's weapon — a weapon that I saw him raise only in self-defense — when _you_ are the one who spilled blood on the steps of the church."

Archer bites back his snarl; it will only entrench the priest further in his beliefs. Small words and pointed questions will serve better in convincing him to consider alternatives. "Yes, I will query it, when the blade is a Saxon seax! No Briton should have this except as a trophy, and no trophy should be on him when he's on duty!" He pushes the blade into the priest's hand, closing the man's fingers around it; maybe he'll be more willing to listen when he's not defenseless.

Stepping back, he gestures at the body, ready to argue his case. "Look at him. He's dressed in a guard's uniform and is carrying the city-issued spear and short sword, both of which have a longer reach and would have served better to defend him; as a guard, he ought to have trained for hours with both. Why, then, did he go for a personal belt knife, suitable only for close-range combat, grappling range combat? Why carry it at all when on duty, let alone use it as first choice of weapon? The only answer is that he was more familiar with it, or did not intend to use it defensively!" His whisper is loud, but still a whisper; he doesn't want to draw attention.

The priest's eyes are still on his hands, but occasionally flicking to the body. Good.

"Was I facing him when he drew the knife? No. I was behind him. You were facing him, and in range of the blade. I stepped between you afterwards. And no Briton would be carrying this blade — it's of Saxon make! His fellows have similar concealed weapons, none of them made alike in the hilts — this knife is _not_ part of the uniform!"

This is how Gaheris must have felt, a scarce hour ago — no time to waste, and an immovable obstacle of a man to persuade to the truth. Archer turns, grabs the corpse and yanks it off the steps and closer to the church wall, talking as he goes.

"You've got wolves in sheep's clothing, quite literally, Father — Saxons in stolen guard uniforms, but still carrying their own concealed axes and knives. I don't have time to persuade you otherwise. I just hope you listen enough to barricade yourself inside and ring those bells — because there's no other way for the word to get out. I need to get back to killing wolves; you need to bar your door and warn the sheep with your bells." Pulling the last body into the shadows, he strips them of their helmets; anything that enables quicker identification is great. He needs to get back to searching.

"The guards are wolves, the people are sheep… I suppose that makes you the sheepdog?" The priest's tone is too carefully neutral to be scoffing, but still inherently skeptical. "On whose authority?"

Archer is careful not to smirk, or frown, lest the priest take it as evidence of lying or being an enemy, but it's so tempting when he's literally heard the perfect set-up for a punch line. "King Arthur Pendragon's."

Before the priest can sputter a reply, or more questions, he launches himself away, leaving only a burst of wind behind.

* * *

On the church steps, Father Baldwin glances around, then up — just in time to see a black figure vanishing over the rooftop above him. Crossing himself, Baldwin murmurs a prayer for the dead men's souls, then goes inside. The front gates and side doors he leaves unbarred; when the alarm bell rings, many will come here for sanctuary or specifics on what the alarm warns of, and he cannot bar their way. He will tell Thomas the bellringer to ring the peals, and to bar himself inside the tower so that no man may stop the warning.

Any Saxon or black-clad Archer that tries to come inside will have to deal with Baldwin himself. And he is not so long a widower or his holy vows so final that he has forgotten how to raise his old sword to defend God's children.

Scarce minutes later, the bells begin to swing back and forth, tolling a steady loud sound, ringing and ringing without end across the city.

Men jump from their beds and pull on shoes and hose, belts and tunics and coats and hoods and hats. Mothers garb themselves and their children, glancing out the window for signs of fire. Some 'guards' curse and turn their weapons and matches on the straw roof, then retreat near the wells to wait for a bucket brigade to come and be slaughtered; others keep up the act until challenged, when they turn the area around them into a slaughter and dye their tabards red-brown with blood.

* * *

Some blocks from the church, a black clad archer lifts his head to watch, looking at the walls. He might not be physically capable of counting individual nails in a bridge while standing on top of a skyscraper some miles distant — but he is _more_ than capable of spotting a target at perhaps a third of the distance, especially if the target is moving atop the city wall and swiftly outstripping the small group of soldiers trailing him. A figure who began to move the moment the bells sounded, and is _not_ dressed in the guard's uniform.

The man is following the walls toward the castle, so Archer makes for a midpoint between the castle and the figure; he wants a better look and a way to cut the runner off. Magic burns in his circuits and under his skin, ready to manifest.

He can make out more details as he gets closer. The oddest one is the fit of the armor — it's made for a burly build, but hangs somewhat loose on a wiry frame, like the man's lost weight or compacted his muscles to lie closer to the bones. A recent change, since the armor hasn't been replaced. Layers of cloth and fur do little to replace the bulk, instead serving to emphasize the lack.

The clothing itself is distinctly Britonic. Long trousers bound at the ankle over short boots, instead of the Saxon's leather straps to close-bind loose hose to the calves. Long sleeved tunic, reaching nearly to the knee — made for a cool climate year-round. An oddly shadowed cloak pin, a throwing-spear in hand, an axe and dagger swinging at the belt beside a coin-pouch. A cloak of cloth and fur, embroidered with runes that stink of magic like overbearing perfume in a too-small space. There is no helmet, merely an odd circlet to contain limp grey locks with an occasional streak of red, like dying embers in a layer of cooling ash.

Then the wall turns, and Archer gets the first look at the man in profile rather than just from the back.

Hair of lifeless, steel-lined flames among a crown of golden horns. A heavy brow, wide and overshadowed as the maw of a cave's mouth. Eyes of quicksilver, sharp for all they are yellowed and dull. Cheeks as hollow as an emptied skull, their bones jagged and the skin thinly draped as the paper-thin scales on a bat's wings. Under the remnants of a once-impressive beard, the man's chin seems the last remnant of his former physicality to match his air and stride: square as a meticulous statue and just as stubborn in its immovable place up in the air. His nose could've been just as proud and pronounced, if not for its twice-broken slant.

He might have been handsome and strong in his youth, and the ghost of good looks still remain even with time and battle prematurely aging the man. But madness and illness have devoured too much flesh to look even somewhat healthy.

It's not a ghoul's face, or a Dead Apostle's, but it does oddly remind Archer of some of the movie representations of living mummies — not entirely bones, but the remaining withered flesh isn't rotting.

The eyes are familiar for another reason entirely — a memory of a Grail War, far in the future, standing between his Master and a black-garbed, corpse-pale swordswoman, the color leeched from her skin and hair. Even the eyes were dull, sparkling green jewels changed to dull gold, dirty with corruption and poorly polished with rage and berserker's fury.

"Vortigern," Archer breaths.

* * *

The bells are ringing. Loud, methodical, ceaseless bleats of hollow steel send shivers of desperation through the air. Men fill the streets in a united, syrup-slow flood toward the church. Guinevere stands at her window, fingers bruising the crux of her elbows as she grits her shivering teeth.

It had to have been a trap that Arturia walked into. There is no other explanation. Tonight's raiders are either allies of their foe or a branch of said foe's larger forces, and they are dangerous whichever the truth. None but the most reckless of warriors would brave a brewing storm… a storm that came and went within minutes… a storm Gaheris himself said is unnatural…

"…Forgive me, my Queen, but shouldn't you be making ready to leave? This isn't the most secure of places."

 _He's just come across the dead body of a man he knew, and had to choose to run to inform us rather than stay and fight as he's been trained to do. You will_ not _yell at him for having the same concerns as Sir Cleges_ , Guinevere reminds herself firmly as she turns to face her fourteen-year-old nephew.

He's changed into clean shirt, breeches and gambeson, scrubbed off his face and hands, and found his own weapons; the sword he carried through the city lies on a table next to her sewing. But there's more to blood than just the color and the sticky stain, and even if there had been water for a full bath and spare servants to heat and carry the water, it would not have helped overmuch. In the space of a few hours, her nephew has aged with guilt and responsibility, and Guinevere is not going to add to his burden, no matter how waspish her thoughts. She still wants a physician to look him over, and has sent for one.

"Leaving the castle would make it much harder for the physician to find us," she says coolly, "or the guards, for that matter. I may not be a warrior, Squire Gaheris, but I would not say the battle is yet so grave as to require that suggestion. I assure you, consideration would be as far as it would go, even then. I will not leave my people."

Not to their current foe. The queen is the last ruler standing, when the king is absent. Who knows if any of the army will return, or - No, Wart - Arturia - King Arthur is undefeated - Avalon makes it so.

Gaheris blinks at her. "Leave your… My queen, I would never suggest that at this stage! I meant to ask if we should move to the great hall, or somewhere else with all the women and children? It would be easier for the guards to defend one place only." He pauses.

Oh. Well. That's… a fair point, if she's ever heard one. Perhaps she should have let him finish, rather than assume. Not all men are the same, even if they all believe that women and toddling babes should be kept safely away from violence.

Guinevere shakes her head, frown lines deepening; she works to keep her voice light and reasonable. "It would be easier for the guards, Gaheris… but if I choose to hide, our people will see that as a sign of defeat. We must do everything we can to keep their spirits strong in times of crisis."

Now the boy is staring at her with polite confusion. "…Then, why are you up here in your tower room where _no one_ can see you? My queen," he adds hastily, an afterthought of good manners.

 _Because a tower room is a good place to see the people. If I can't see everything at once, problems inevitably crop up in a blind spot. My vantage point is my only advantage; I can't give it up_.

He's still staring, waiting for an answer.

_I promised Arturia I would care for our people and city while she was gone. I won't break that promise. It doesn't matter if they see me watching them or not; what matters is preventing the worst outcomes, and where else can I see those but here?_

Gaheris stares at her. His grey eyes pierce inside her skull, seeking answers. He's said nothing more, she hasn't answered him. Why is it so hard to find the words?

_Because he's right, they're all right, and you're a foolish little girl who's too proud to admit it, playing dress-up with her husband's crown. And it took a child's common sense to make you realize the truth._

For an instant, she can see the brilliant advisor Gaheris will become as an adult, and she is ashamed of herself for standing on her pride.

"…You're right," she whispers. Picking her nephew's new sword up from the table, she moves toward the door.

Sir Lucan is waiting there, relief on his face, ready to escort her to a more defensible spot. To wait, until the doors are battered down, or they choose to escape. But Guinevere will not make that choice, not yet. She still has some pride.

* * *

The horses thunder into the courtyard, clattering to a slowed trot and then a halt; Arturia is already swinging her leg over the saddle and handing the reins to a waiting groom before the ground steadies. Ignoring the London garrison in front of her, she swings her gaze to their raven-haired second-in-command turned chief-commanding-officer.

Sir Agravain looks like he's had about as little sleep as her. His hair is limp, his eyes huge and shadowed. His armor is neat and polished, his posture filled with overcorrect stiffness to guard against slouching. The moment she came into his sight, his shoulders slumped in relaxation, only to instantly tense once more with every step she takes towards him.

He ought not to worry. She has little time to take reports, no time to make reprimands. "Sir Kay, Sir Gawain, Sir Ector! Exchange our wounded and most exhausted for fresh troops; have them ready to march in an hour. Fresh horses too. Leave everything that is not essential; we travel as lightly as possible. Hurry."

"Yes, Sire!"

"Sir Agravain," King Arthur continues, suiting motion to words and gripping his wrist to drag him upright and away when he would kneel to her, "your report's details would be appreciated, in private. I presume you are in command here?"

He nods, stumbling into step beside her after a lighting fast moment of adjustment. "I have been acting commander since the discovery of Sir Pellinore's corpse. He should never have gone unguarded; I take full responsibility for not insisting—"

"Yes, yes," she interrupts, pulling him inside the doors, looking for a private room. "No tangents, please; every moment must be used."

Sir Agravain frowns. "As you say, your Majesty. I am acting commander; if you wish to name someone else, I have the commander's seal here ready to return to you—"

"You may continue to act on my authority for the present moment, Sir Agravain. Have there been any developments since your written report was sent? Do we have an estimate on the number of boats that passed without notice?" Procedure is well and good, but she needs information. If he hasn't mucked things up by this point, he can hold things together for a bit longer.

He blinks, moving his thoughts to the new line of conversation as quickly as possible. "Ah — impossible to give a firm estimate. Traces that we found could put the number of boats at anywhere between five or thirty vessels, and we must assume every boat was fully manned. Thirty is almost certainly an overestimate; there was only an hour's time range where they could have slipped through, and that's just after the watch changed. Unfortunately, we only found evidence of their passage as the tide shifted, and already partially erased when the water rose."

"Did no one see or hear _anything_?" They duck down muddied stone halls, through oak gates; the floor rushes need replacing, she notes absently.

Agravain grimaces. "I suspect they used the typical smuggler's tricks — cloth-wrapped oar paddles, handles, and oarlocks to minimize creaking, masts and sails stowed to minimize sightline, and everything painted to blend into the water. Add the fog that came in for a short while, and they had the perfect cover to sneak inside even in daylight."

"Fog?"

"Yes, it came out of nowhere and left just as quickly."

Unusual weather — magic, possibly? "I'll ask Merlin to look into it. No other sign?"

The black-haired knight shakes his head in frustration, leading her around a corner. "No one of my guards has admitted to anything, nor has any local, but I am _certain_ that bribery must have occurred, or someone is keeping their mouth shut about something they witnessed. To make it inside and upriver without noisily bumping a single rock, dock, or piece of debris — it's just not possible, not without local knowledge of the waters. Frankly, I'm just trying to figure out which of the locals they bribed — or kidnapped and killed once they were finished with him, but searching for missing people is damned hard right now."

Arturia clenches her fist under her cloak. "So how did you realize that they were there, if they were so quiet?"

A dark, triumphant grin flits across the knight's face — a moonbeam revealed through a slit in the clouds before hiding again. "Tides don't always behave predictably once you get into a new bit of territory. Somebody lost their oar over the side in the marshes — near the old causeway. One of the men living there found it, brought it here in case 'some damn fool city man' had been reported lost. Given there was no other sign, I suspect that it was _only_ the oar that was lost — they likely disembarked somewhere near where the River Beane joins the Lea, and then marched over to St. Albans and hence to Camelot. But someone got their oar stuck in the marshes and lost it over the side in the process — and the wrapping is not cloth woven on a British loom. I checked with every cloth-seller and cloth-maker I could in the city at short notice to be certain of that. Certainly not with this emblem."

Pulling her into a small side room and locking the door behind them, he strides to a chest, and unlocks it with two keys. Pulling out a sodden cloth, he spreads it on the table.

"Hengist's symbol," Arturia breaths. Not a certain match, but a connection to Vortigern's father-in-law is the first certainty they've had beside rumor and words.

"You have a keener eye than myself, sire. I can barely make out the design pattern at this point." From another chest, Agravain pulls considerably dryer contents, spreading a map on the table, carefully out of reach of the sodden cloth. Black and green lines cover Britain's interior — roads and rivers, Arturia realizes after a moment.

"If they were going by land, up Watling Street, I'd wonder if they were retracing Boudicca's route. All they're missing is a burning Londinium behind them," Agravain muses idly. "I'll admit the river-valley-landing in the village of Hertford is a bit far west for that; they'd have a good twenty miles to walk or ride to the St Albans settlement, and not much in the way of a straight road. But still, it's not hard to guess their destination. If they just wanted fields to burn, they could stick near the coast; they want something else if they're going this far inland. St Albans, or some other abbey, is my best guess."

"Are you sure St. Albans is in their path?" Arturia would very much prefer him to be wrong.

"Well, there's few other settlements around that would require such numbers for raiding, and they can't exactly go much farther upriver without leaving the boats or running out of nearby targets. Besides, Vortigern is known for having good relationships with the fairies and spirits when he can manage it; he's more likely to target the site of a Christian martyr, in my opinion. Especially if his men need bribing with treasures left by pilgrims."

Arturia shakes her head in frustration. Is he blind, or merely inexperienced? "Don't play word games, Sir Agravain. If they reach St. Albans, they won't stop there." Her hand moves west five miles, tracing Akeman Street.

"As you say, there's little else in that area that's of interest or accessible a short walk from the water. If they get that far, why _not_ go for the capital? Camelot is a bare five miles west from St. Albans. Vortigern's already baited me with another location elsewhere, which means he wanted me out of the capital." She steps away from the table. "I'll be taking fresh troops, and going to defend my city."

Agravain stares at her in disbelieving incomprehension. "But, sir, that's just over a good twenty miles from here to St. Albans, and another five to Camelot, even following Watling Street and Akeman Street! It would take you perhaps fourteen hours to travel the same distance, assuming good daylight and roads and under a forced military march or on a single horse – we'd need horses in relay to get your cavalry there in less time, and no way for your infantry men to follow, even if they weren't exhausted!"

She stares at him, waiting for the point of the calculations. Does he really think she hasn't considered such things?

"You've already fought one battle this morning and afternoon, then rode straight here – and now you intend to go again? Your will may be sufficiently stubborn to pull such a trick off, but your bodies will wear out before you manage such. Then, once you get there, you would have to battle? If the invaders take the path you are predicting, they will not only have arrived and had time to raid, they will also have had time to rest. Mortal men are not capable of the impossible, sire."

"That would be why I am taking fresh troops from your men here," King Arthur returns, spine straight.

"I can have the beacons lit, if you want to signal warning in time—"

The king shakes his head. "It is a good plan, and please do it. But we need to reinforce the capital. Now, please, arrange for the soldiers I leave here to be fed and allowed to rest."

Agravain shakes his head. "As you wish, sire, but what of you? I fear, at this point, the capital is likely lost, sire."

"I will not accept that before I have even tried to save my people." Green eyes flash a warning. "Do _not_ question my orders in a wartime crisis, Sir Agravain. Question them in peacetime when we have time sufficient for reasoning to be explained."

Agravain shuts his mouth. A moment of struggle, then he gives a stiff nod. "The king commands, and I obey." He kneels, and brushes his lips over her gauntlet. "I won't pretend to like it."

"That's perfectly acceptable, Sir Agravain. I'm here to save my kingdom. Being liked is a secondary concern. See to it the forces are ready to depart within the hour. And thank you for your fine command in unexpected circumstances; carry on until you hear otherwise."

"And should I hear the worst?"

"If you confirm it with proof rather than rumor that all is lost… save my people. Cities can be rebuilt; but people will not live again once they die." Snatching the sodden cloth of proof under her arm, she turns to the door, barely acknowledging his last acquiescence before she strides off.

He probably doesn't mean her to hear the last words, but her ears have always been keen, and his voice is clear though hushed: "You are as mad as any of your line, Pendragon, but if this madness is the method to match and overturn Vortigern's madness – then I _welcome_ it."

* * *

Four shots in succession – one for the throat, one for the eye, one for each foot. No noble phantasms needed; regular arrows from Archer's bow are plenty powerful enough to go through standard doors, let alone skewer Vortigern like a butterfly on a collector's pin.

Or at least that was the plan.

But somehow…

The shots to the feet solidly pierce the leather boots, but feet remain intact and the runner never slows. The shot to the throat rips his tunic and separates links of mail armor around it; but the arrow hangs trapped in the cloth rather than bound in the skin and muscle, and there is no impediment to shoulder movement, for the shot to the eye never makes it – a hand catches it bare inches away from the face, and crushes the shaft into splinters.

…A human with Servant-level reflexes. Wonderful.

Vortigern's still running flat out on top of the walls, absently yanking the ruined chainmail away with his free hand to get at the collar-lodged arrow. Metal links come apart like separated Velcro strips or buttons bursting loose as thread breaks. The arrow shafts stick out of the tops of his boots, but never impede his step.

Even without magical enhancement, the force of Archer's shot combined with the design of the arrowhead means his arrow is capable of penetrating a two-inch-thick oaken door. On a human target, it ought to have penetrated skin and muscle and lodged in bone if it didn't go straight through to the other side. His feet should be pierced to the sole and beyond. But they aren't. Which means something is blocking the arrows.

_Please tell me this isn't a case of Achilles or Siegfried with invulnerable skin. I do not have time to search for the vulnerable spot._

The alternative is that Vortigern is just ignoring the problem, but options for that kind of strength and lack of response to damage aren't particularly great. Most of them involve an inability to feel pain, or an inability to register it as meaningful or debilitating. Another, worse possibility is that damage won't stop functionality.

Fortunately, a lot of the problematic options in such categories can be solved with decapitation.

Well, if ordinary arrows won't work, Archer's always preferred close combat as a method of keeping his cards to his chest. He's gotten his target's attention – he might as well take advantage of it.

The main downside are the other witnesses. Anyone in eyesight will be able to get a look at them fighting. But there isn't another option. Hopefully this display will at least silence any accusations of treason and espionage.

Slinging his bow on his back, Archer leaps forward, and draws the sword at his waist, visibly leaving himself open to attack.

When Vortigern throws the spear, he knocks it aside with his sword.

The king hoists the throwing axe, ready to split the bowman's skull one-handed.

Archer gets his blade up, just in time to block the weapon. The impact sings, metal striking metal. His shoulders ache, his arms tremble, his feet skid on the stone as the force pushes him backwards.

This strength… is comparable to a Servant's…

_The tendencies of a berserker fighter? It would explain the immunity to pain, plus the displays of strength. But I would have thought this beyond any pure human no matter how enraged._

So far, what Vortigern's pulling off is comparable to a lower-level Berserker. Nothing like Heracles, not even close, but…

Then the metal fractures, and Archer barely manages to shield his eyes from the shrapnel in time, jumping backwards before the ax blow can continue its path towards his skull.

Except, it doesn't come.

The shaft of the axe snaps in two, the blade whirling back over Vortigern's shoulder to embed itself in the stone behind him.

And three shards of Archer's sword, the sword he forged in his shop, pass Vortigern's face, leaving thin red lines on the forehead, the corner of the eye, and the upper lip.

_Oh, good. He can be cut. Question is, was that because my hand wasn't on the weapon?_

Vortigern pauses, touching the wound; his fingers come away bloody. Golden eyes meet steel grey, and within the gold-madness lies the hypnotic fascination of a swaying cobra drawing nearer.

"Well, now, this is a surprise," the Usurper says after a moment, his voice deep and dark as a played-out mine. "I hadn't known that my little brother's legacy had tried to recruit fairies, or that any fae besides Lady Vivian was allied to him."

 _What?_ "I'm not a fairy," he says carefully. Warily.

"Well, you're certainly not human," Vortigern states. "No human could wound me."

Archer very deliberately smirks. "Looks like one just did." _No human could wound you? That's… troublesome, in the implications. As much as I'd like to hope it's just arrogance, a vanilla mortal can't blade-catch my arrows._

"No mortal with mortal-made weapon could have made so much as a cut, no matter how determined," Vortigern says. For a moment, the madness almost seems tinged with kindness. "Child, do you not know what you are?"

Emiya Shirou might have engaged in the verbal sparring, or tried the decapitation again. Archer knows better than to risk it with an insane opponent. Instead, he jumps away, swings his bow off his back and lets another shot fly.

Vortigern doesn't bother to dodge it. Instead, he plucks the arrow out of the air.

Big mistake.

 _Boom_.

Archer breaths in, eyes flicking through the dust cloud. Ordinary arrows pack a punch when it's his bow firing them; infusing them with even a small amount of his magical energy to create an explosion is the work of an instant. Particularly when his target insists on catching the arrows or letting them hit rather than trying to dodge.

It's not complete obliteration or certain death; that wasn't a Broken Phantasm, after all. Just an ordinary arrow Reinforced until it reached oversaturation of mana. But the power was enough to significantly damage a Servant at close range. Maybe enough to kill, _certainly_ enough to knock unconscious. A human would need regeneration abilities to get out without a broken skull or neck.

Then a hand reaches out from the darkness, and he can't dodge in time.

Vortigern's cloak is dusted with powdered stone and shards. Splinters cover his hands. His eyes are flat with maddened rage; his mouth curves in a cruel smile.

His fingers grip Archer's collar, and yank him up to dangle in the air, knuckles pressing against the bowman's windpipe.

"This was… amusing, for a _moment_. But whatever you are… I can deal with it later, once this isle is cleansed. Your interruptions have become as mosquito bites. If you intend to be a gadfly, allow me to treat you accordingly."

Vortigern backhands him, and it's like a monster truck impacting him dead-on – if a monster truck were as tall as a three-story building.

There's nothing under his feet, or hands. No breath in his lungs. Wind's rushing past him.

The last thing he thinks before he makes impact is to try to shift his body to shield his head and internal organs, and to toss his bow to safety so it doesn't get crushed.

Then there's pain, and darkness.

**_…To be continued in another chapter, coming soon as we can manage!_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 'Easter and Wedding Preparations', Archer noted that Alaya had given him 'mission adjustments' that regressed his physical age, and also required him to eat. We have mentioned in the past to reviewers that the adjustments also affected his stats. Therefore, here are Archer's current stats:
> 
> EMIYA (Farran)  
> Strength: D-  
> Endurance: D+  
> Agility: D+  
> Mana: C  
> Luck: E
> 
> Note that these do not put him at the level of a baseline human, but all stats with the exception of Luck are downgraded from his Servant form in FSN.
> 
> We also would like to offer you Vortigern's stats:  
> Strength: A  
> Endurance: A  
> Agility: C  
> Mana: D  
> Luck: A
> 
> EDIT UPDATE: There have been concerns that Vortigern is overpowered. We promise that there is a justification for it, but we were trying to avoid spoilers…
> 
> Those of you who are familiar with Garden of Avalon probably remember that Vortigern did not battle Arturia in human form. He drank the blood of a dragon, and transformed into a black dragon, the avatar of the Isle of Britain.
> 
> That transformation isn't complete yet - but the blood's had enough of an effect to boost a few things. It's coming with a cost down the line.
> 
> In addition, consider Vortigern's goal in his own words: "If this island is to be defiled by human hands one day, then I will bring it back to its original form. I must turn Great Britain into hell. A paradise of darkness forever uninhabitable by man."
> 
> If Archer is Alaya's champion, Vortigern is Gaia's - even if he's self appointed to the job. That has consequences.
> 
> ADDITIONAL EDIT: Thanks for reviewers catching typos!
> 
> Forgot to mention something about longbows and their arrows. Even in the hands of a normal human, they pack a punch. Ewart Oakeshott's book "A Knight In Battle" recounts two instances of their power, as described by 12th century writer Gerald of Wales:
> 
> "[I]n the war against the Welsh, one of the [English]men of arms was struck by an arrow shot at him by a Welshman. It went right through his thigh, high up, where it was protected inside and outside the leg by his iron chausses, and then through the skirt of his leather tunic; next it penetrated that part of the saddle which is called the alva or seat; and finally it lodged in his horse, driving so deep that it killed the animal."
> 
> At nearby Abergavenny Castle, Gerald saw an oak door made of two-inch-thick planks. Four arrows had been shot into it, and the arrowheads were "standing an inch or more clear of the wood inside the door".
> 
> That's how powerful those arrows are, even without Archer doing the shooting or packing any mana into them.
> 
> Why not pull out UBW just yet? Remember, defeating Vortigern isn't the only goal; Archer wants to keep his cover intact and prefers not to reveal all his skills when this isn't the only enemy in the years to come. He'll be a lot more ready to use his full powers if he doesn't have to deal with witnesses afterwards. He hoped he could take out Vortigern without getting noticed too much; that backfired, so he'll have to up the game now. Convenient that Vortigern gave him a clue about his weakness, isn't it?


End file.
